


Aftermath

by Southern_Comfort



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: A/U given Avengers 2 and Iron Man III, All the Avengers Have PTSD, Angry Tony, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Bombs, Brief Thor/Jane, Bruce & Hulk Interaction, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Gets a Life, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce is smart, Buh-bye Pepper, Character Histories, Explosions, First Time, Grief, He's also a billionaire, Higher Learning, Hospitals, Hot Sex, Hotter sex, M/M, Mourning, No Darcy, Picnic, Ross Hates the Hulk, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Smart Is The New Sexy, Steve Feels, Steve Gets a Life, Teaching, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Tony Is A Genius, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony gets what he wants, Tony has Serious Alcohol Issues, Who Made the Hulk, furious Steve, grad students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 101,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Comfort/pseuds/Southern_Comfort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the first Avengers movie came out, I was fascinated by the relationship we see slowly growing between Tony, Steve, and Bruce. With so many fundamental differences between them, how would they develop the camaraderie, trust, and loyalty they would need if they were to survive as a group? While they are the primary characters in the novel, the team is there as well, strengthening relationships between each other in the exciting residence that is Avengers Tower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brooke_Lynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brooke_Lynn/gifts), [Agent_Orange_III](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Orange_III/gifts).



 

Bruce Banner had never thought of himself as a particularly angry man before the gamma radiation infused his cells. He would have self-identified as a pacifist, rarely raising a fist or voice, preferring to make his point using cool logic and knowledge based in long years of study and research.

Until the accident, he had barely remembered his young life as the son of David and Maria Banner, growing up under the merciless heat of a New Mexico military facility, with a raging, abusive father and a sweet, overwhelmed, punching-bag mother.

He allowed himself to forget that his father had intended to kill him with a kitchen knife.

That he had, in the struggle, stabbed his mother to death instead, while Bruce had hugged his knees and cried under the kitchen table like the eight-year-old he was.

It had been General Thunderbolt Ross who had locked David Banner up in a psychiatric facility, and sent Bruce far enough away that dark memories of the military base were drowned beneath New England snows. The decision to go to Berkeley for his grad work, then to Virginia for subsequent research, had held no taint of memory of warm climates and sunny skies. He later considered it karma of a sort when he realized he and Betty had ended up together in the same university, beginning as they had in the same desert. Betty had been only three when the explosion had rocked the New Mexico facility on the day Bruce’s mother was killed and his world overturned.

David Banner’s military-themed research had been destroyed in the initial explosion at the New Mexico base. Fatefully, he had been attempting to recreate the Super Soldier serum that Abraham Erskine had laboriously perfected and injected into a scrawny, young, and foolishly brave Steve Rogers, the identical serum that Bruce had been attempting to formulate with the addition of gamma radiation for entirely different reasons. At least that’s what he had thought at the time. It wasn’t until the Army had moved in to take over the project that he realized they had foreseen far more militarized uses for his work than Bruce had even guessed.

After his death, his father’s secondary work had been quietly, but efficiently, taken away by Ross, never to see the light of day.

That was exactly what the general had planned to do with the monster, or the Other Guy, as Bruce liked to call him, preferring to differentiate between them even if they did inhabit the same body, like a grotesque Jekyll and Hyde.

It wasn’t until the Hulk became useful to SHIELD that Bruce was able to retrieve his father’s notes, his brilliant, but inevitably unstable, work. He learned it wasn’t just the genetic changes that David had incorporated into his own DNA and then passed down that had changed his son.

It wasn’t just the various injections Bruce had received as a child and the slow, gradual exposure to beta waves to aid the mutation.

It wasn’t simply the massive infusion of gamma radiation he’d absorbed that fateful day, which had, rather than furiously melt the structure of his chromosomes, strengthened them, realigned them, shifted their very basic structure to something more resembling a freakish conglomeration of oddly linked base pairs that mutated every time he changed into his huge, green alter-ego.

All of these, along with a psyche fractured from childhood abuse and terror, had created the Other Guy, the one who walked along Bruce’s mind, thundering in rage and fear, only quieting when he was calm and safe.

Like he was now, meditating, while seated on a towel settled on the marble floor in his room at Avengers Tower. It was early; a brilliant June dawn had just risen in the east, peeking gaudily between the many buildings of Manhattan’s midtown. Bruce was relaxed, his wrists resting on his knees as he sat cross-legged, worn briefs his only clothing. After all the years of traveling, running and hiding, he was still coming to terms with the idea of possible stability, of being able to release the Other Guy when wanted or needed, instead of any time he was upset, hurt, or threatened. The incident on the SHIELD Helicarrier a month ago had been the first in more than a year, and Bruce was irritated that the long string of calm collectivity had been broken.

_Breathe out . . . one . . . two . . . three. . . ._

_Breathe in . . . four . . . five . . . six. . . ._

Meditation had done a lot for Bruce’s breath control, the management of his pulse rate, and along with the yoga and running he’d practiced every day for the last six years, had helped in maintaining his physical and mental strength. He was still unsure whether he could age normally or die, given how the Hulk mutational genome was healing even the most severe injuries and preventing illness.

What he had told Tony Stark that first day was utterly true: most of the time it was like walking around as a giant, exposed nerve, waiting for anything or anyone to stimulate it to pain or terror, and then bright green overdrive. In the beginning, any strong emotion could send him careening into an incident; now, he had more of a handle on it.

Make that _most_ of the time.

So many people had asked him what it felt like to have another personality alongside his own. Bruce usually responded that it was “a pain in the ass,” and left it at that, because really, how do you explain something so basically _strange?_ Bruce felt what the Other Guy felt, knew what he knew; he didn’t have to think about it, it just _was_. Normally, Banner could feel his presence like pressure right behind his eyes, in the front of his skull, sitting, waiting. He could visualize him if he wanted, though he rarely did. The Other Guy was under his skin, wrapped around his bones, making him feel heavier than he actually was. If he didn’t pay attention, a fraction of his strength and speed could pop out, to catch something or lift something Bruce knew _he_ couldn’t.

There was a certain _détente_ between the monster and the man these days though. Banner did his best to keep their world balanced and safe. In response, the Other Guy didn’t take advantage and attempt to push past the mental world Bruce had created to house him and prevent his ‘unauthorized excursions.’

Right now, though, the Other Guy was getting irritable, no matter how much meditation Bruce did that day. Well, not so much irritable as hurt. He stomped along the mental corridors of Bruce’s mind, grumping, grumbling, and muttering.

 _I’m with you on this one. Really, I am,_ Bruce told the brooding presence, never certain if his big green alter-ego heard him, or just didn’t care enough about what he had to say to respond. _He_ continued to growl low, and Banner fought to keep his responding grumble in check.

News of Betty Ross’ impending marriage to an up and coming neurosurgeon on June 15th had trickled through the scientific chatrooms and lists that Banner was involved with, so that when he received the invitation care of Tony Stark, it wasn’t a complete surprise. The reality of it shouldn’t have been a shock; they’d stayed in touch over the years through various e-mail accounts after the Harlem disaster, and Bruce had remained firm in his belief that they couldn’t have a life together as long as the Other Guy was uncontrolled. Betty fervently, loudly, and furiously disagreed, but Bruce wouldn’t budge. To his mind, he wasn’t in control as long as pain or fear could bring the Other Guy out without Bruce’s say-so, no matter what heroics they participated in.

Her father was still in the pursuit-and-capture mode as far as the Hulk was concerned anyway, which left Betty livid. She wasn’t speaking to him, and refused to have anything to do with him as long as he was heading Operation Take Down. Ross insisted to anyone who would listen that Bruce Banner was property of the U. S. Army and that he remained a biological weapon no matter what they achieved with SHIELD; it was unlikely that anything Betty or Bruce did or said would make any difference. SHIELD had consistently countered Ross by using their lobbyists on Capitol Hill to pour a triple cocktail into willing and unwilling ears alike, highlighting both Ross’s callous methods and the fact that too many Hulk incidents, both national and international, had occurred due to the army’s violent pursuits of Banner. SHIELD’s position was that Banner worked with the Avengers as an asset under their supervision. Fury had supposedly made it clear that there would be repercussions if he were not available because of their hunting him. Not that either of them had faith in their too-easy acquiescence.

Ross wouldn’t be deterred. Not by anyone.

Bruce refused to place Betty in such a dangerous position; he wouldn’t even consider it, especially after seeing the film of the Culver University incident, and what little he remembered of the fight with the Abomination. She nearly died because of him; he wouldn’t take the chance again.

And he couldn’t blame Betty for getting on with her life; how long was she supposed to wait?

He sighed and let it go as best he could. _She needs a new life, apart from the constant threat of violence, kidnapping, and world-shaking rage_ , he told himself again _._

_Her professional contact is what I need from her now._

_It’s better for her, and her relationship with her father._

_She can have a family with him, something she desperately wants._

That’s what he told himself, over and over again. He had visualized waving good-bye to her in focused meditations, using all the techniques he’d garnered over the years, until her stunning blue eyes, soft lips, and husky voice were a distant smudge on his emotional horizon, and he’d pushed down his feelings to the far corners of a distant mental attic.

He only hoped they stayed there, because today was her wedding day, and he wasn’t feeling particularly convinced about any of it. He’d shredded the beautiful invitation between hard, callused, chemical-stained fingers, but the date was emblazoned behind his eyelids. He hadn’t needed to respond — he could hardly show up at her wedding and not expect her father to shoot him the moment he saw him. It wouldn’t particularly surprise him if the general had made some arrangements in the event Banner did attend. (Not that Betty would have invited him, but the general had a propensity for showing up where he was least wanted.)

And even worse, something warned him that if he did manage to see her in her wedding dress . . . he’d just break down and cry . . . followed by the inevitable gunshots, paratroopers, gunships, and smell of gunpowder.

Probably not the wedding gift she’d envisioned.

Instead, he’d sent her an ancient six-inch, ten-ounce, indigo-blue jadeite carving of a phoenix arising from its flames. The piece had been ridiculously expensive, but Bruce believed Betty would understand the multiple meanings it was intended to convey. Luckily, the funds Banner received from his patents had not been entirely diverted by Thunderbolt and the U.S. Army. While he wasn’t wealthy, he’d survived well-enough on the meager funds he’d skimmed, sufficient to aid him in his many escapes over the years.

Bruce let out another deep breath and stood up. While part of him could easily have crawled back into bed and let the day go on without him, he stripped off his briefs and walked into the bathroom to take a shower.

Breakfast was some fruit, toast, and non-caffeinated tea. He did his best to limit anything that would have either a stimulant or depressive effect on his system.

His hair was wet and wildly curly; it needed to be cut. He’d have to take the scissors to it later. He was still underweight; two Other Guy incidents in a recent twenty-four hour period had wiped out whatever layer of fat he had managed to acquire, and his ribs stuck out hollowly, chest hair dark against tanned skin, containing only a few silver hairs. Bruce hadn’t physically aged a day since the accident, and if the mutation slowed the aging process, or prevented it completely, he didn’t entirely know yet. He could probably stop exercising altogether; consciously he knew that but it was a soothing routine, and he dearly needed those.

Of course, everything of a calming and tranquil nature he ascribed to could be inadvertently demolished by his housemates, the Avengers being in turns, abrasive, argumentative, energetic, combative, and plain difficult to deal with. Each of them had their own issues, and those resulted in aggravating each other in unexpected ways.

Bruce dressed in a pair of old cargo pants and a frayed cream button-down, rolled up the sleeves, and ran a dented black comb through his thick hair. That was as far as his manscaping routine allowed, and on some days when his mind would not shut up, he didn’t even get that far. Taking the elevator down to the lab just below Tony’s, he wandered in. The lights immediately came on, and the tea pot began to heat on its small stove in the little living area he’d created here, a place he could collapse when exhaustion wore him down to shambling steps and mumbled requests to Jarvis to “Save it, and turn it all off.”

While there was really no location on Earth where he was safe, either from his psychoses or the many groups and organizations that wanted to get their hands on him, he’d deluded himself sufficiently to salvage some sense of safety here, in the lab. Bruce slipped into a crisp, white lab coat that the cleaning ‘bots had washed, and admired the pristine workspace, the shining machines, sinks, and counters, the table-size computer screens, inhaling the lingering scent of chemicals and paper, of iron-oxides and agar gels, listening to the magnetic hum of refrigeration units, sterilizers, incubators, and the drip of a faucet that was like a symphony to him.

He stepped to the lab fridge, ready to remove his recent samples and begin the day’s work, thoughts already on the next step in the intricate experiment he had outlined, as he opened it. His heart began to thrum in his chest as fast as a cheetah could run when his eyes caught something unusual among the neat rows of test tube trays. Inside, standing alone was one special tube, laid on its side. The multicolored label indicated a particular sample, the only one of its kind in existence. Bruce knew that, because he was all too aware that any others had been destroyed over the decades, either by usage or theft, fear or jealousy; even the few at SHIELD Headquarters had recently been ruined by their angry unwitting donor.

The red, white, and blue marked vial held the only sample of Captain America’s DNA left outside of the man’s body, encased in his blood, and left here as a gift to Banner.

 _Today_. As an analgesic to distract him from his pain over Betty’s marriage.

He left the tube in the fridge, his hands trembling too much to take it, and considered the value of the gift.

Steve Rogers was only a young kid in his early twenties when he’d been transformed into Captain America. Though he had been capable in his own time of overcoming the problems inherent in the team atmosphere of the Howling Commandos, he was still working out all the kinks in this one, while simultaneously attempting to adapt to the 21st century and become reasonably familiar with what had happened while he’d been encased in ice. While he didn’t speak of it, Bruce could often see the pain in the man’s vivid blue eyes as they drove through New York City in one of Tony’s cars on their way to SHIELD or some other meeting or event.

Banner _couldn’t_ imagine Rogers’ pain at the loss of effectively _everyone he had ever known_ ; how did one mourn, grieve a loss of that magnitude and remain sane? He supposed it had to be along the lines of survivors of the Holocaust, but at least some had survived; their former countries were destroyed and invaded, but intact. After the Chitauri invasion, Bruce had watched the video files that SHIELD had provided the team to get them up to date on each other and their skills. Steve’s was relegated to a written file, including some of his movie reel footage and promo shorts. His parents had died when he’d been young; he’d moved in with an aunt, who couldn’t really afford to keep him, and spent most of his time living with his best friend, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, and working at various small jobs to stay alive.

He’d been found and promoted by Dr. Erskine after Steve had gone through every possible scheme to get inducted into the army during the war. He’d come into his own after a disastrous stint as a war-bond seller and show accoutrement, rescuing Barnes from a HYDRA base, and returning with almost 400 other prisoners. A plan to kidnap the lead scientist of HYDRA, Dr. Zola, had succeeded, but only after the death of Steve’s best friend. Days later he was sent on his final mission and for all intents and purposes died under a layer of Artic ice.

For Steve, this had all happened in just a few months.

Watching him, Bruce thought that Rogers didn’t deal with his pain very much; only occasionally could the memories that flipped through his thoughts be seen on his face. And Banner had to look away when they did, because anguish of that kind seemed to call to his own and rouse the Other Guy to an almost intolerable pitch.

Smart, sharp, and able to shift priorities on the fly, the captain was an effective leader in the field, confident and courageous. He would fight until he dropped from wounds or exhaustion, and when he came to, would continue the battle. Nothing seemed to stop him, and only a few adversaries even had the effect of slowing him down. Bruce often smiled at the Other Guy’s pleased memory of Steve telling him to “Smash!” when the Chitauri had attempted to take over the planet for Loki’s governance. He liked that kind of tenacity (when it wasn’t directed at him), liked the way Rogers could coolly settle Stark down with a few words in his ear or a touch on his arm, liked his implacable belief that as long as they gave it their all, everything would turn out right. He might be a touch naïve in that sweet, sometimes befuddled 1940’s way of his, but then Steve would turn his head, and Banner would be reminded that the soldier in Rogers was in control all the time, especially when you didn’t see him.

Steve was also undeniably the most beautiful man Bruce had ever laid eyes on. He analyzed that perception occasionally, to test its reliability, but the hypothesis always returned the same results. It wasn’t just that Rogers was the epitome of masculine physical perfection (though he was), or that his strength of will and character leaked out of his pores (it did), or even that his eyes were every possible color of blue, changing with his mood, darkening in ferocity while he fought, or lighting with humor when he laughed (they did) . . . it was all of these things combined in one man that made it difficult to look away from him sometimes.

_Oh, Steve._

Rogers’ had lit into Fury when he’d found out they’d been working with his blood, taken while he’d been unconscious. He’d asked Stark to hack SHIELD’s firewall and interface with its mainframe (again) and find out where it had been kept, and what use it had been put to. Then, with a coldbloodedness that Bruce had been hard-pressed to think Steve capable of, he walked into SHIELD and broke every sample, snapped every cryogenically preserved specimen, over loud and frustrated protests from Banner and the SHIELD medical and scientific personnel. Rogers irately and loudly refused to be the beginning of any kind of eugenics program; the evidence of concentration camps and intended Aryan perfection had tainted Steve’s ability to be even remotely objective about the subject.

And while the scientist in him had been frustrated by Steve’s passionate response, Bruce the man completely understood it. After all, Banner burned the hair in his comb; burned his fingernail clippings; burned his cut hair. He hand washed his eating utensils, and scrubbed anything he drank from, even in the Tower. It made eating out difficult; Banner had cultivated a bad habit of stealing his used forks and spoons, or using a chemical powder that looked like sugar and acted like bubbly lye in his used coffee cups to wipe out any residue. No scrap of DNA could be allowed to fall into any hands that might use it to further their own ends.

It was useful that as Bruce he wasn’t radioactive, as odd as that may seem considering he harbored one of the most lethal ionizing radiation forms lying mostly dormant within his cellular structure. The Other Guy _was_ radioactive though, a mixture of non-ionizing and ionizing gamma and beta wavelengths streaming from his body all the time he was present. Banner had created sub-dermal protection for the Avengers and insisted that steps be taken to protect SHIELD agents from being contaminated or harmed by lengthy interaction with him. There was too much blood on Bruce’s conscience to want more.

Bruce stared down at his blunt, big, hands and wondered what he could do to repay such a kindness from Rogers.

Banner was aware that whatever Erskine put in that damned serum, the mixture had only enhanced Steve’s innate generosity of spirit, his kindness and gentleness, his compassion. Unfortunately, that combination plus a damn sharp mind and the body of Adonis aroused Bruce far too easily. He did his level best not to stare, and found himself dropping his gaze frequently whenever Steve was around, so that the other man didn’t feel ravished, and he didn’t suffer from tight pants.

Anthony Stark, however, was another kettle altogether. If anyone could visually reduce Rogers to flushed cheeks and stuttering sentences, it was Tony, and it only took him minutes. In uniform, Cap ignored it completely, disdainful of anything that detracted from the mission or training at hand, but Rogers was easily combustible.

While Tony had tried his tempting gaze on Bruce occasionally as an experiment of sorts, the sexual lure of Stark’s voice, his hungry eyes, and practiced lips completely undid Steve’s composure and he usually vacated the premises immediately after. Lately though, Bruce noticed Tony had stopped teasing their illustrious leader — well, with his constant sexual innuendo, at least. He did torment the man, irritate him, aggravate him, and otherwise tried to remove him from the pedestal that Howard Stark had placed Steve on so long ago. And in Banner’s view, he failed every time. Steve was just _Steve_ , a kid from Brooklyn whose parents had raised him right, who believed in all the virtues and tried to practice them, and used his strength to protect those who had none. Banner thought Stark had a huge man-crush on the guy.

Bruce was still unraveling the mystery of Tony Stark, and understood that it could possibly take a lifetime to unlock all the facets of his complex personality. He was undeniably the most brilliant man Bruce had ever known and he had the worst case of ADHD he had seen in an adult. But when Stark focused, the man was untouchable. His ability to create was awesome, and there was nothing, no concept, no idea, that was too unwieldy for his mind to juggle, no paradox he couldn’t solve. What was most fascinating about Tony’s work included his ability to determine that if something he needed for a particular project didn’t yet exist, he’d _create_ it, just to get back to the initial experiment or plan.

Nothing seemed to faze him.

Well, nothing other than simple human interactions.

Like many of the most intelligent people Banner knew, Tony’s interpersonal skills were a little warped. He had absolutely no patience with anyone who couldn’t keep up with his lightning intellect, except for Pepper, who he couldn’t live without, and Rhodey, who he completely adored, for reasons only Stark knew. Stark himself had said that they stuck with him through the worst: his parents’ death, his drinking, his general assholery as he simultaneously ran the company and became the latest Stark, Merchant of Death; the horrific capture in Afghanistan; his broad transformation to Iron Man and the Man of the Future; the repercussions of Stane’s influence, betrayal, and inevitable overthrow; palladium poisoning; and now, The Avengers Initiative.

And let’s not forget _Bruce_ , living in Tony’s home, the tower that Stark had informed Banner last night would become Avengers Tower since the team was pretty much living there.

“What?” Bruce had asked, gesturing for him to rewind that last with his chopsticks, parsing through Tony’s verbal download with the ease of constant practice. “Back up? _Avengers Tower_?”

They were eating at a new restaurant in Chinatown that Stark had insisted they try because it supposedly had authentic Chinese food, not the boring rice and carbo-loaded imitations to be found in every state in the country.

“Why not? It’s home base for the team, it’s centrally located, has the room to spare, I wouldn’t have to go anywhere, and besides, we need a place to stow all our general . . . awesomeness.”

“And you’re okay with that? Taking your name off the door after the work you put into it?”

“I’ll still own it, Bruce,” he said with a smirk, mahogany eyes dancing. “Nothing will change other than the name of the top eleven floors.”

Banner glared. “Except that every person who doesn’t like us will know where to trap and kill us.”

“Paranoid much?”

Bruce dropped his chopsticks and sat back, instantly irritated. “Are you seriously trading quips with me about paranoia?”

Tony had the grace to look contrite. And it was cute — for all of a second. “No. _No._ Really. My bad. Um, I mean, doesn’t everybody know where we live already? And being Avengers, we’ve got targets us on anyway. Why not wear them with style?”

The very idea of being that public sent a shiver down Banner’s spine. “That won’t work for me, Tony.”

“Why are you mad?” he’d asked then, completely mystified. “I thought you’d like the idea.”

“I’m not even sure I want to be a part of this! It hasn’t been that long since I was hiding in the detritus of an Indian city so remote I didn’t think God knew where it was.”

“SHIELD did,” Tony pointed out unnecessarily, poking his chopsticks into a piece of beautifully cooked roast duck. “Doesn’t everyone know that Calcutta’s in India?”

Bruce sighed. “ _Kolkata_ is the correct Bengali name _._ Are you even listening?”

“I’m listening, I’m listening, sorry. You _have_ to be an Avenger, Bruce,” he whined like a three year old. “And I want us to be science buddies and solve the reeeaallly tough problems of the world.” The teasing tone in his voice dropped off and turned hard. “More than that, I want to give you all the resources you need to show every one of those brain-dead bastards at _Biophysics Journal_ and _Cell_ exactly how mind-blowingly smart you are, that you’re not some science reject who puts on a Hulk suit every so often and smashes things when the dumbass army goes and shoots at him.” The dark eyes ensnared him for a good minute, their intensity causing his mouth to go dry. “I want them to realize their mistake in thinking that the Hulk was the most dangerous, important, amazing part of you.” His voice became deeper, intimate, almost a whisper. “I want to be there when you’re deluged by research grants, college chairs, Nobel prizes, and fawning academics, and the Hulk is relegated to Other Guy status. Because he’s not the amazing part— _you are._ ”

Bruce bit his lip and let a warm wash of affection for Tony streak across his chest and hit his belly. His smile was grudging, but genuine, as he poked around the vegetable _lo mein_ and avoided Tony’s gaze. “Guess that means you want me to stick around.”

“Guess it does,” Stark replied in his most casual tone, shying away from the moment. “Besides, think of the tax write-off for Stark Industries!”

“You’re subsidizing SHIELD by letting us live there, Tony,” Banner countered. “Besides the tech you hand out to them for free, of course.” He grinned a little. “I heard through the grapevine that Fury wants a Jarvis of his own and is asking his techs to get on that.”

Stark snorted. “That has to be a joke. Those idiots haven’t even figured out how Cap’s shield works yet.”

Banner chuckled at the memory of that dinner and refocused on the present and the lab.

Standing up, he went back to the fridge, staring down at the red, white, and blue vial for a long time, until the cooler started to buzz a warning that it was close to ruining other samples with the warmer air he was letting in. He reached in, took out the vial, and considered.

There had been more than one country or one scientist who had tried to reconstruct the experiment that had created Captain America with bad or worse results. While the physical aspects of peak human abilities were repeatable, without the certain blend of morality, responsibility, and humanity that made Steve _Steve_ , the results were less than stellar. Many subjects were mentally corrupt in one way or another, which caused deficiencies that were truly horrific and immediately euthanized. The Hulk version was due to Banner’s own fractured mental state prior to irradiation along with the experimentation done when he was a child, and couldn’t be considered a valid serum result, no matter what Ross wanted people to think.

In his mind, Steve Rogers and Captain America were unique, and irreproducible. The physical manifestations could not be separated from the mental, and using it to formulate a cure for any current disease would no doubt maim the intended patient beyond remedy. Bruce clasped it in his hand for a long moment, then turned to his lab desk, entered the vial of blood into the system he maintained for biological hazards, then walked to the end of the lab where the ovens were placed. Placing Steve’s vial inside a rack, Bruce removed the cap protecting it from the air, and closed the door.

“Are you certain this is what you want to do, Dr. Banner?” Jarvis asked softly.

“The usual procedure, Jarvis. Three hundred and fifty degrees Celsius for thirty minutes.”

“As you wish.”

He went back to his desk and input the vial number and next to it typed _DESTROYED_ , the date and his initials. In case Banner had to leave tomorrow, he wanted there to be no doubts what had happened.

Since his gamma/serum research days were long behind him, and Banner had realized that no matter what he did, the Hulk manifestation was likely permanent, he had changed the tenor of his research. It hadn’t taken him long after the Harlem disaster to understand that a career in biophysics as it stood was a non-starter, other than his deep and personal knowledge of gamma radiation and its effects on humans.

In line with Bruce’s desire to be a better person, or as much of one as he could be considering his alter-ego crushed and killed people with little remorse when angered, Banner re-tuned his focus to the biochemistry of immunology and epidemiology.

At the moment he was working with Ethan Tucker of Columbia University regarding the 2009 influenza-A (H1N1) epidemic that had swung from the UK to the US and then all ports beyond in less than a six-month period. Though the mortality ratio had skewed higher in developing countries, (if Hong Kong could be considered that,) it had been formidable in so-called ‘First World’ countries, especially the UK, and as such, reminded everyone of the terrible 1918 influenza pandemic which ended WWI in a relative stalemate and left 100 million dead globally. While the numbers were nowhere near that terrifying, there were too many pediatric and geriatric patients for most hospitals to contend with and almost 5% of all cases died of viral respiratory response or myocarditis.

Banner’s samples were varied and contained multiple strains of various flu viruses in the period since 1918 in an attempt to analyze their mutation factors and rates over time. It was the sort of analysis he was very good at, and Tanner was thrilled with the results. They had started a paper for Cell (though Bruce was of the opinion it wouldn’t be published if his name was on it), and Tuck had been talking him up to his friends at Columbia and NYU, Johns Hopkins and Harvard, so Banner was receiving more emails and paper-mail than he had in seven years, including a _fascinating_ request from USAMRIID, the _Army_ Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (at Fort Dietrich, MD) regarding a new sixth species of the Ebola virus that recently reared its bloody head in South Africa and killed a thousand people.

He had to wonder if they even knew who he was or if they were just that desperate.

By the time three o’clock rolled around, Bruce was ready to climb the walls just to distract himself from the knowledge that Betty’s wedding was happening _now_. Deciding that a walk and a cup of something hot might take the edge off, he grabbed a jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses and slid into the elevator that took him past Tony and his labs, the secure parking garage, and the innocuous entry into the underground bunker that housed both the building’s Arc reactor, and the massive facility that housed Jarvis’ mainframe, core processor, power supply, and his secure lines that enabled him to interact (and hack) any system in the known world.

The ground floor of Avenger’s Tower was as busy as any midtown skyscraper that also housed Stark Industries Research and Development departments. The lobby contained an old-fashioned diner with neat tables on the sidewalk, a Barnes & Noble, Puck’s, a Brew House, a combination dry cleaners/Chinese laundry/laundromat and a full-service Elizabeth Arden salon, plus a Stark Innovations Lab — which was a fancy public relations way of showing new and in the pipeline tech that would be coming to an overpriced store near you soon.

Bruce edged his way out of the elevators behind the huge burnished steel desk that controlled access to all of the elevator banks. Two burly, serious-looking men with submachine guns stood at the end where the team’s dedicated elevator opened. They gave him a nod in polite respect, but there was no smiling greeting, no cheerful waving, or casual chats. These guys were _serious_ ; anyone who tried to get through them either had a death-wish or armor that would stop a tank.

He made his way out of the building trying not to bump into either employees or tourists, and through the late afternoon sunshine. The weekend sidewalks were crowded with people talking, walking, laughing and jostling, but there was a method to the madness that the natives knew and Bruce had quickly learned. As he walked, he listened, head tilted at a downward angle, feeling the vibrancy of all the life around him. Taxi’s honked their horns, buses chugged, trains roared beneath their gratings, while Spanish, French, English and British tones could be heard around him.

There was an old coffee shop about five blocks from the Tower that he had begun to frequent rather than the obvious one in the lobby, and it was there his feet led him today. It was open 24-hours a day, and Bruce had begun to make late-night visits when he couldn’t sleep or his work kept him awake but leaving him needing fresh air too.

He liked the New York City nights; it was never truly dark between streetlights, car headlights, neon advertisements . . . it only breathed a little slower, as though just catching its breath before the next day began, and the crowds once more took to its streets. Though the crime rate was down, it was never wise to overlook what was around you . . . too often disregard of danger had left more than one tourist in pain, financially poorer, but wiser. She was the Big Apple: take a bite if you dare, but don’t be surprised if she bites back.

The little old Polish man that Bruce practiced his language skills on wasn’t at the shop yet, so he took his cardboard cup and tea bag with him, and returned cross-town and up Fifth Avenue to the Tower. He had almost made it to the side of the street with the huge doors when he felt both his arms taken in firm grips. His heart lurched in his chest, and he looked up to see Natasha Romanov on his right and Clint Barton on his left.

“Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?” Banner hissed as he jerked away from the SHIELD agents, tea sloshing beneath the plastic cup cover.

“You need to keep your eyes up, doc, trained on what’s around you,” Tasha warned, her gaze a brilliant blue against ivory cheeks and dark-red hair.

“The sidewalk won’t grab you; Ross will,” Clint added, his voice harshly professional.

“He’s a little busy today, guys,” Bruce muttered, snapping the lid down on his tea again in an attempt to keep it from spilling further.

“His minions aren’t,” Barton advised gently, his eyes behind the sunglasses staring at the corner of the opposite street. Bruce followed his gaze, and saw four men in a black SUV with two others leaning against the building. Their eyes were locked on him and he knew, from the sudden sweat on his upper lip and the tingling sensation at his neck that they were here for him. A few more minutes’ inattention and he might have been hustled into that car and off to God knows where with none the wiser.

“Don’t worry, doc,” Tasha murmured as she took his nerveless hand in hers and tugged him into the building while Clint brought up the rear, “you’re never alone. Even when you decide to take a jaunt at three in the morning, someone’s always watching.”

Her pace was quick and Bruce hurried to keep up. She still hadn’t let go of him and her grip hurt.

“I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

“You want to be a lab rat for Ross?” she asked caustically, waltzing past the security agents with the big guns with a smile and a toss of her hair, shifting her grip to his wrist like he was an errant child trying to get away from her.

“Of course not,” Bruce growled, and snatched his hand loose. She reacted as if stung and shook out her arm in obvious pain.

He sighed, angry at himself. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.” She flexed her hand, and he saw her thumb and wrist begin to swell.

Clint let out a groan, pulling off his sunglasses. “Bruce! What did you do, man?” He slid his card into the reader for the elevator, and pushed all three of them inside.

As he moved closer to determine the damage, Tasha hissed and backed away.

“I’m sorry, Natasha; I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me look at it.” He kept his hands at his sides and just used his eyes. “We need to x-ray it to make sure I didn’t break your thumb.”

“It’s not broken,” she snapped, glaring at him with irritated blue eyes. “Just a sprain.”

“Are you sure—?”

“Tasha’s broken enough bones to know between a sprain and a fracture, doc,” Clint told him with an exasperated sigh. “But I’ll check it, just in case.”

She growled at Clint, but didn’t argue.

“I am sorry, Natasha.”

“You don’t know you own strength, Brucie,” Clint teased him, slipping off his sunglasses, hazel eyes sympathetic but not angry.

“Don’t call me that, Clint,” Banner replied darkly.

“You’re pissy today, doc; what’s up?” the archer asked, his cheerful expression confused, but managing to get the pun in there anyway.

“Nothing, Clint,” he replied, not wanting to get into it with the agent.

“Dinner later, right?”

Steve had insisted that the team have one meal a day together, and while breakfast was usually the one where they all met, sometimes Tony or Bruce was still asleep or Stark had meetings. . . . Those who didn’t get a meal in the morning with the team, tried their damnedest to make it to dinner, or Rogers would be coming by to check up on you. His earnestness was adorable, but his stubbornness was difficult to counter without making Steve mad. And a mad Cap held on to it for a couple of days, letting you know in no uncertain terms that you had let him down. Bruce hated it. He’d rather a fist in the face than the disappointed expression on the other man’s. So though he was prone to solitary meals and isolated down-time with a book, he allowed himself to be dragged into the group . . . and found he liked the comradeship, the companionship of family dinners, conversation, and disagreements refereed by Sitwell and Steve.

When Natasha and Clint were on their level of the Tower, Bruce took the elevator down to his lab again, so upset with himself he wanted to scream. He didn’t even want the damned tea now, but he put the cup into the microwave and let it heat. Living under the radar in so many places meant that he had learned not to waste food or drink, and he sucked the hot beverage down before immersing himself in his research again.

The soft ‘ding’ of a bell over the speakers in the walls and overhead indicated that dinner was ready, and Bruce groggily pulled himself back from his work to glance at his watch. He was still irritated by what had happened with Natasha, mad about Ross and his men shadowing him, and beyond hurt or mad at Betty’s marriage, which at this point, was a done deal. Uncertain whether he could be civil tonight, Bruce returned to his work, and ignored the hungry growl of his stomach.

By nine, he was sitting at his desk at the rear of the lab, drinking from a bottle of thirty year old Macallan single malt scotch he had gotten from Tony a few weeks ago. He wasn’t drunk, but he was dopily maudlin and doubly morose. On a note pad, he was reviewing all the ways in which he’d tried to end them in the past three years.

 

_Asphyxiation, bullets, defenestration, drowning, hanging, stabbing, strangling = Other Guy._

_Bleeding, crushing, infection, overdose, poisoning, stab wounds, toxins = Other Guy’s healing ability._

 

He could always try irradiating himself again, but that was chancy. He could come out of it worse, with the Other Guy in control. Beyond that, it could break down his cellular structure to the point where it wouldn’t maintain any cohesion at all. Even he didn’t want to go out a melting puddle of former-human goo.

At 10 pm, he got into the elevator and went up to the penthouse, then out to the balcony outside the common rooms, sitting down with his legs over the edge and looking over, to the long drop below, and thinking, _If I could just get drunk enough to stay calm while we fell, maybe this time it would work. . . ._

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve & Tony find out how dark Bruce's world really is.

Tony Stark was intently analyzing the concept of a flying car. He had his father’sprior work, but had scrapped it, given that he had far more durable and malleable materials to work with now and a new form of energy. The super soldier’s astonishment that flying cars were not widely available pushed Stark into asking himself the same question: _Why not?_

Steve didn’t quite understand the new political agenda or arena yet but he was learning very fast. His response to the war on terror was the question: _Why do we rely on oil refined from dinosaurs, purchased from countries that hate us, then allow ourselves to be drawn into wars to protect our supposed allies who turn on us the moment they don’t get the financial aid package they demand in order not to give their support to the Russians or Chinese?_

Tony couldn’t argue the point too hard other than to reiterate the amount of oil the United States used daily, and the amount in storage or stored in the Alaskan oil fields. Unfortunately, the two were nowhere close. Which was why Stark was the _name_ in clean energy.

Steve was sitting in a corner of the lab, listening to _Led Zeppelin II_ as it played in the background, though not as loudly as Tony would have liked. _Whole Lotta Love_ needed to be at earsplitting decibels to really enjoy the pungent sexual overtones, but Stark doubted Rogers would appreciate it.

He’d taken to sitting with him in the evenings while Tony worked, sketching things either from memory or from various cameras that Jarvis had access to all over the city. Though he was shy about showing his sketches to anyone, Tony had snooped and was sincerely impressed by the scope of Steve’s talent. Which was only overshadowed by his appreciation of the man’s ability in tactics and strategy, and his overwhelmingly tight a—

“Sir?”

Sighing at the distraction, Tony replied, “Yeah, Jarvis, what’s up?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but Dr. Banner has just exceeded the allowable warnings. You wanted me to let you know—”

Tony’s head jerked up and he swallowed, hard. “The suicide warnings?” He heard Steve drop the yellow pad he’d been scribbling on and move quickly to his side.

“Yes, sir. He has been withdrawn for the past week, has been sleeping inordinately, began drinking this evening, and is now on the penthouse balcony.” Both men were moving before the AI could finish, running for the elevator.

“Jarvis, exceed spec parameters for Lift Four. I want to be on the roof in less than a minute.”

“How many floors does this building have?” Steve asked, his hand pressing against the metal wall, the other keeping Tony standing as the elevator shot upward, only to slow with a whoosh of compressed air as they came to their stop.

“Eighty. Wouldn’t even leave a dent; probably just a hard enough fall to make Mean Green cranky.”

They slowed when they came closer and saw Bruce still sitting on the edge, seeming to be contemplating the drop.

“What’cha doing, buddy?” Tony asked casually, sitting down next to him, one arm coming to rest over Bruce’s shoulders. “Are you drinking without me?”

Bruce handed him the bottle without looking. Tony took it, glanced at the label, and put it to the side. “Good stuff.”

“Nothing but the best for you, Tony.”

His syllables were slurring together but Banner _was_ a self-admitted lightweight in the drinking department. “So, what’re we drinking to? Hmm? Experiment gone well? Ross died? The Other Guy declared a truce? What?”

“Did Tasha tell you what happened?” Bruce muttered, shifting incrementally closer to the edge.

Stark tightened his grip and glanced at Rogers in alarm. “Yeah. She said she’d been too rough with you, and you didn’t like it.”

“I hurt her, Tony. Me. Not him.”

_And how does a guy like you do that, huh?_ “And now she knows to be more careful where she puts her hands. That’s not a bad thing, bud.” _The Widow is a less-powerful Soviet version of Cap, fast, strong, and ridiculously agile. You didn’t just “hurt” her without having something big and bad backing you up._

Bruce grunted. “There was an Army team outside today.”

_Does he even realize how close the Hulk is to his conscious mind?_

“Sitwell says they’re always there, just waiting for SHIELD to slip up,” Steve murmured, his light tenor coming across so casually he could have been commenting on the weather as he looked over the edge of the balcony and winced at the drop.

“This was different. I _saw_ them, I _felt_ the threat. How long can SHIELD hope to keep them away?”

Steve shrugged and sat next to Bruce, kicking his feet like they were sitting in a really tall tree. Tony had to smile at the image, putting away his musings to a point in future when he had the time to indulge them.

“As far as I can see,” Steve offered, his remarkable features highlighted by the brightness of Manhattan’s skyline, “SHIELD’s doing them a favor. No matter how hard they try, they can’t hope to hold onto you for long. You’re too smart and he’s too strong.”

“They’ll still keep trying, and kill innocent people in the process.”

_Determined to see the dark side of everything tonight, aren’t you, buddy?_

“Probably,” Steve conceded. “But that is not, and would not be, _your_ fault.”

“And that isn’t what this is about,” Tony said, looking at Steve with a frown that countered the gentleness of his voice. “It’s about that wedding invitation you got two months ago.”

“Checking my mail, Stark?” Bruce snapped, shifting his shoulders angrily, but Tony didn’t let go.

He laughed instead. “As if. Biochemistry and immunology journals are too damned boring. No. Pepper reads the society columns. Elizabeth Ross got married today at St. John the Divine. She was your girl, right? Your lab partner before you turned green and all.”

Banner seemed to crush in on himself and he let out a pained grunt. “Tony, remember when I said I got low. . . .”

Steve latched onto Bruce’s arm with careful but strong fingers, and Tony sighed in relief, his grip tightening on Banner’s shoulders. Steve wouldn’t let go; Bruce would have to be willing to take them both down with him, and he didn’t believe he would.

“You’re not going back there, Bruce; we won’t let you.”

Bruce laughed, but it wore the tones of despair not humor. When he was done, he turned exhausted sherry eyes on him and said, “I’m already there. I want to die so badly, Tony, so much. But I can’t, because he won’t let me. He doesn’t want to die, even though this hurts the both of us so deep we can’t breathe when I allow myself to think about her.”

Tony looked at Steve for a long moment, and he knew Rogers could see the anguish in his eyes by the expression on his face. “I get it, Bruce. Really, I do. I’ve been there, I’ve fought it off, took one day after another until I didn’t have to _push_ my way through every minute, and then every hour. It does get better. And you have people now, people who care about you.”

“We _are_ kind of a dysfunctional family,” Steve agreed, slipping his hand down and taking Bruce’s, interlacing their fingers. Banner wasn’t going off this roof without them. Steve glanced over and saw that Tony was wearing the bracelets that would call the Mark VII armor.“What happens to one, happens to us all.”

Tony’s head spun a little. He knew Bruce heard them, but believed their touch conveyed more than their words. “We’re not letting go, so deal with that. We’re going to stay right here, and if you decide to make the leap, we’ll go too.”

Steve nodded in agreement, his young face stalwart and prepared.

Stark knew that the effect on the team by Banner’s death couldn’t be minimalized to an equation. It would have repercussions far beyond him. He repeated, “We’re not letting you go, so make up your mind.”

“Guys, you know you are both bat-shit crazy, right? I may not die, but you might. Now back off.”

“Nope. Not gonna happen, Big Guy,” Tony insisted. “And by the way, I’ve been tossed off this building. It doesn’t take as long to hit the ground as you might think.”

“I wouldn’t go splat, Tony. _He_ wouldn’t let me.”

“But you thought you’d try anyway, huh?” Steve asked softly, obviously trying to understand his thought processes.

“Later. When there were fewer people walking around. When we were too drunk to do anything about it.”

“Ah, you see, that would be a ‘no’ on lift-off, Houston,” Tony sarcastically added. “The only place you’re going is bed.”

The two men lifted him to his feet against his protests and brought Banner into the penthouse, settling him on the couch with a light blanket around him. Tony rested Bruce’s head in his lap, carding through his hair, while Steve sat on the cocktail table and held his hand tightly in his own.

Taking a deep, relieved breath, Tony let it out. A few minutes later, Butterfingers rolled around with a bottle of water and Tylenol. Steve took them and made sure Bruce drank the water and took the pills. Bruce fell into a deep sleep soon after.

“Now what?” Steve asked. “We can’t leave him alone.”

“Don’t think he’ll wake up again tonight, unless it’s to puke,” Tony offered. “And he will,” he added, looking at the level of liquid in the bottle of scotch Bruce had handed him. “He will be feeling every one of his years tomorrow when he wakes up.”

“The voice of experience?” Steve asked with a small smile.

“Something like that,” Tony agreed. “We should get him to bed. I don’t want the penthouse to smell like a vomitorium.”

Steve lifted the unconscious scientist easily.

“Isn’t he heavy?” Tony asked, admiring the play of muscles along Steve’s shoulders and back beneath the white tee shirt. He bit his tongue, stifling the innuendo that wanted to escape. _That man’s butt is a thing of beauty._

“Nope.”

He grumbled under his breath about scientists who threw the laws of physics aside, and nine foot monsters, but Steve didn’t reply. Which was probably just as well, because then he would have to try and explain why Bruce should weigh the same ton or more that the Hulk did, and how the fact that he obviously didn’t was fucking with Tony’s version of a rational universal theorem.

Banner’s apartment was just beneath the first floor of the penthouse, so Steve took the stairs. Tony grumbled about it, but since Rogers was doing the heavy lifting, he had Jarvis dutifully open emergency doors and then Banner’s stair exit without further comment.

Tony hadn’t been in here since Bruce had agreed to move in “for a few days,” which had turned into weeks. Every time Banner talked about leaving, Tony would whine and complain, entreat and downright beg, to the point where it became embarrassing for them both. Soon, Bruce’s announcements faded away. If he left now, he probably wouldn’t be telling anyone about it. Stark wasn’t sure whether his strategy had backfired on him or not; only time would tell.

Each apartment was designed along the same lines with only the team member’s possessions lending any identifiers as to whom it belonged to. The lights came on when they moved inside, and as Steve carried Bruce further in, and to the bed on the right, he whistled softly. He followed Steve and looked further.

There was nothing that indicated anyone lived here. Sure, the furniture was present, clean towels in the bathroom, but it was pristine, without anything that would turn it from a hotel into a home. No pictures, no clothes strewn around, nothing but a few towels covering every possibly reflective surface.

Stark bit his lip when he saw that. It was a sign of PTSD; only those who couldn’t stand to see themselves did that. Tony had done the same, not wanting to see the reflection of the arc reactor in his chest when he’d first come from Afghanistan. It had reminded him too much of the desert, of pain and terror and despair. Sometimes, reflective surfaces still caused flashbacks. _What is it that Bruce doesn’t want to see?_

He turned and considered Bruce’s ancient duffel by the door, packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Tony felt a tight feeling in the region of his heart, a sense of pity welling up that he would never let Banner see.

The expression on Steve’s face puckered his lips and brought an intense frown to his forehead. He swore softly, the first time Tony could remember hearing a curse leave the other man’s mouth.

“You didn’t know?” Rogers asked, his arms planting themselves against his chest.

“Didn’t have a clue it was this bad,” Tony admitted. “What does a guy do when he wants to die and can’t?” he asked himself softly.

“He dies on the inside,” Steve replied after a few minutes, “And goes through the motions.”

Tony threw him a sharp look. “You’re not—”

“No.” Rogers shook his head. “I won’t kid you. I have my dark times like everyone else, but I do something to get out of them. Or one of you does,” he acknowledged with a smile. “Clint seems to be psychic about my moodiness. Or Natasha will kick it out of me in the gym. Fury will pull me into a mindless meeting that makes me so happy to get out of it. . . .” He chuckled. “Even you, with your insistence on teaching me about the age of technology—”

“In capital letters! I am a futurist, after all.”

“Yes, in capital letters. I get down, but it’s nowhere near this . . . absence of life. Do you think he’s even aware he’s done it?”

Stark blew out a breath. “I-I don’t think so. Maybe he’s so caught up in control that he’s let the rest go by. And when he can’t push the pain away. . .”

“Like today.”

“. . . he goes back to his failsafe — dying to get away from it.”

Steve bit his lip, which always had the effect of derailing whatever Stark was thinking about; whole mental boards of engineering equations could be lost in the gray space his brain conjured of pornographic videos starring his dick and that mouth supplanting them. “Umm, yeah.”

“So what do we do? How do we convince a dead man to live?”

Tony refocused on the problem at hand with difficulty. Rogers had that effect on him. “When Yinsen . . . in Afghanistan, y’know?”

Steve nodded.

“I thought I was going to die. Was ready for it, actually.” His eyes locked on the duffel sitting so forlornly by the door. “Didn’t see any way out. Yinsen saved my life, but more than that, he gave me purpose. I was going to get out of there and live up to my potential, to put aside the war games and do something worthwhile.” He felt the tension ball into his stomach. “I’d seen the world from the other side of the missile and didn’t much care for it.”

Steve rested a hand on his shoulder, and Tony shook his head, pulling himself out of the intensity of the memory. “A wake-up call’s not a bad thing,” he admitted. “I got the chance to turn it all around. And even with Pepper going off with Happy to live a normal life, Rhodey becoming War Machine, and Obie turning out to be—” He couldn’t say it. Stane had murdered his parents, and almost killed him. And all because he didn’t want Tony to grow up, to question what he was doing. He wanted him to stay the child-genius who’d worshipped him because he gave him affection and time, who’d produced terrible and worse weapons, all in an effort to retain his love.

Rogers squeezed, and the heat from his big hand felt so good, the connection so intense, Tony sighed in satisfaction. “You’re like a personal space heater, you know that?” he quipped in an effort to offload the emotion. “Not that it’s bad, I love it; just saying.”

Steve smiled and stepped back, releasing him. “What about Bruce?”

“Maybe he needs a wake-up call. A reminder that life can be good again. Hell, great, again.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Tony smiled. “I have an idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banner and Ross come to terms. Will SHIELD agree?

Bruce’s hands came up in an effort to determine if that thing that hurt so bad was his head.

After missing twice, he finally landed one hand, which confirmed his worst fears.

It was his head.

_Oh my God_.

His mouth felt like it had immediately after being near-trampled by a bull in Pamplona, Spain. Actually, that had tasted better, he remembered.

The room was dark and he could open his eyes after a few minutes. By the position of the sun, it was late afternoon, and Jarvis had configured the photosensitive floor-to-ceiling windows so its rays wouldn’t burn out his retinas. He closed his eyes and turned over, slowly sitting up, and holding his head with both hands as it attempted to roll off his shoulders.

“Feeling a little hung over there, Brucie-boy?”

“UAhhh. Shhh, Tony, not so _loud_.”

Stark chuckled, but it was in a softer key at least. “Here, drink this. It’ll help.”

Desperate for anything that would resolve the pounding of little hammers on the top of his skull, Bruce reached out and let Tony put the cold glass into his hand. He didn’t care what it tasted like and drank it all down at once, praying afterwards it wouldn’t make a return appearance in the immediate future.

“Hey, does the Other Guy get drunk when you do?”

He was able to open one eye long enough to see the grin on Stark’s face when he gave him the finger. Bruce got to his feet, and shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. He had vague memories of worshipping the porcelain god last night (this morning?) but his stomach seemed to be settling. Nature insisted he take care of his bursting bladder, before he stood under a hot shower until his other eye opened.

A hand offered him black coffee through the shower curtain and he took it with a grunt of thanks, letting the water pound the ache in his back and shoulders until the cup was empty. Feeling marginally better, he turned the water off, and tossed a towel around his hips before leaning against the bathroom doorframe. “What the hell happened last night?”

“Well, let’s see,” Tony replied, dressed in an ancient pair of black jeans, gray long-sleeve tee, with a light grey _Megadeth_ tee over that, and bare feet. “You worked, drank, drank some more, drank a lot more, then went up to the balcony in the penthouse and sat on the edge, still drinking mind you, and waited until you were drunk enough to fall off and not turn green.”

Bruce took that in, turned around, and brushed his teeth.

“What, did that sound like a typical Friday night to you?” Stark asked, coming to the bathroom door, his expression irritated.

When he was finished, Banner replied, “Something like. Without the booze, usually. I guess it didn’t work.”

“Sorry. Steve and I didn’t care to scrape up little bits of Banner, so we short-circuited your suicide by concrete. Besides, it’s June; I finally got the Tower exterior fixed and here you want to destroy the sidewalk! All the construction companies are busy putting mid-Manhattan together again; I’d be paying through the nose.”

“Inconsiderate of me, I know.” Bruce looked at the razor, then to how his hand shook, and put it back down. He could stay furry for a day, no one would care.

“You don’t like mirrors, either?”

Bruce wouldn’t meet his eyes, not feeling strong enough yet. “No.”

“You’re not _that_ bad looking.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I think. Um, sorry about last night,” he said as he went past Stark.

Tony grabbed his arm, his calluses pinching against the muscle of his biceps. “See, I don’t think you really are,” he replied, his tone fierce. Bruce looked up, into coffee-dark eyes reddened from lack of sleep and anger. No, not anger: _rage_. He’d seen enough of it in his own gaze to recognize it in someone else’s.

“You ever, and I mean, _ever_ , put yourself at risk like that again . . . and you will be sorry, Bruce. Make no mistake.”

Banner didn’t doubt him for a moment; Tony only bluffed when he had no other options. “I understand.”

A tense few minutes passed as Tony looked into his eyes, weighing his response, and whatever he saw in his face. “Make sure that you do,” he finally said, and released him.

“How did you, um, prevent it? Last night, I mean?”

“Steve took one arm, I took the other, and we pulled you off the ledge. We put you to bed. You intermittently got up to puke, but other than that you slept.”

Bruce rifled through the duffle bag, surprised to find it empty. “Where’s my stuff?”

“In drawers. And closets. Like normal people.”

He huffed out a rueful laugh. “We’re nowhere near normal, Tony.”

“Perhaps not, but you’re further away than I am.”

That could become an argument fraught with cruelty, and Bruce decided against it. He pulled open drawers until he found a pair of briefs.

Tony walked over to the lone, empty duffle and tossed it in the garbage can, his eyes on Bruce’s all the while, daring him to say anything.

He met Tony’s eyes. “That won’t stop me if I decide I need to go.”

“You have a job to do here.”                                                   

“What?” he asked, his anger finally snapping like electricity over his skin. “Be the monster’s keeper, his human skin? Release the beast when he’s needed?”

Tony reached out and grabbed Bruce’s hair, pulling his face to his own. “Do you dare think that that’s all you are? To me? To the team? Did it ever occur to you, _doctor_ ,that we’re all fucked up in our own ways? That none of us is as perfect as you demand yourself to be? Do you have any idea what it would do to _us_ to lose you? Especially after being lied to by Fury about Coulson? We nearly lost Clint over that and Fury is still nursing his broken jaw.

“You’re all caught up in your own tragedy, Dr. Banner! There are people out there that need your help. Not just as the Hulk, but as the scientist. Your work is light-years away from everyone else’s, don’t you get that? What’s it going to take to get it through your thick head, Bruce, that there’s more to you than a genetic mutation?” He shook Bruce like a dog with a toy in its teeth.

“Please stop yelling,” Bruce begged, his skull resounding with the anger in Tony’s voice. “I swear, I’m listening — just let me go.”

Stark backed off, his hands out in front of him, palms out. “Sorry.”

The rousing beast in his mind settled back, returning to his nap as Bruce breathed his way through the fear that physical violence always brought out in him.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, not appearing fazed that he could have become a bloody blotch in less than a minute’s time. “I know better than to lay hands on you like that — but you make me so mad, Bruce. You really do. You don’t see your value, your worth, to me, to the team, to the world. It makes me crazy.”

Bruce collapsed onto the couch, his knees shaking. “How much of that is real, and how much is you not wanting me to off myself?”

Tony sat next to him, their bodies touching along one side, his body language going from rigid to calm in moments. “All of its real.” He let that sit between them for a while.

“Which only makes me more determined not to go to your funeral. And if you think that I’m hot on the topic, you should deal with Rogers. He’s flipping out. I think if he loses one more person he cares about this year, it might leave him a red, white, and blue smear.”

Bruce sighed and then groaned. “Oh, _god_. He’d blame himself.”

“Oh, yeah, big time. He’s the Cap, the boss, the leader of our merry little band. And so noble, it hurts. And Coulson — can you imagine if you died while he was on sick leave?”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, until Tony said, “Talk to me, Bruce. Tell me about her. Tell me about all of it.”

“You read my file.”

Tony huffed. “Yeah. That and a MetroCard will get me on the subway, but no closer to knowing what makes you tick. How in God’s name did you get caught up with Ross’s daughter?”

It came out in bits, disjointed snapshots of life before he became _more_. Steve came in during it, but Bruce didn’t notice until the soldier rested a hand on his shoulder, soothing and calming him as he talked about Ross darting him, removing him to Colorado, and Talbot’s retaliation, before taking a seat beside him.

“I’ve never been much for getting hit. Guess my Dad conditioned me to abuse pretty early, but I didn’t get tougher; I just learned to hide better.”

“Where does the Other Guy come in?” Steve asked, his blue eyes wide and pained in his too-handsome face. _He’s too damned young to be so strong._

“I can only make educated guesses about that,” Bruce admitted after a moment. “When my father became violent and hit my mother or me, I would imagine a monster with huge fists and big muscles, so much stronger than anybody else, who would stop my Dad and protect us. Over time, I could hear him growling in the back of my conscious mind, warning me of danger, of people who would hurt me. It was all instinctive; his cognitive skills weren’t and aren’t very advanced, but he knows what a threat looks like even when my more analytical mind doesn’t.”

“There’s that guy that talks about the subconscious and how our reptilian minds perceive threats that we otherwise ignore. Remember? Wrote a book a few years back?” Stark asked.

“Ye-ah. Lovette. Situational awareness. I remember. The Other Guy has a lot of that.”

“So, he started out to protect you,” Steve clarified.

“And he still does,” Tony added. “Only now, since the gamma incident, he can use your body to do it in. That is _wild_ ,” he whispered to himself. “His job, his only job, is protecting you. Everything else . . . is just bonus.”

“And you try to stay safe, so other people are safe, but with the Army chasing you down, it gets harder and harder to tell him that there’s no danger,” Steve said, his confusion clearing. “If they just left you alone, he’d settle down.”

“But they won’t. They want the monster. They want to make another, or more, or different ones, the kind they think they can control. They can’t. Just like you, the Other Guy’s creation, his core behavior, is due to my mental state.” He thrust a hand out, pointing at Steve. “You’re all the virtues put together: brave, strong, gentle, kind, generous. Erskine knew what he was doing with you.

“I’m schizoid, fearful, angry, difficult, demanding . . . _not_ a template for a duplicate Cap.”

“That’s what Doctor Erskine said: ‘good becomes great—bad becomes worse’.”

“Exactly. See, they can’t make another one of us, either of us, no matter what serum they use—each person is going to come out differently. It’s been tried — that’s where that thing I fought in Harlem came from.”

“We have to get Ross to see that,” Steve insisted, turning to Tony. “There has to be a way to get to him.”

“He didn’t listen to his own daughter, Steve; what makes you think he’ll listen to you?” Bruce asked, refusing to allow any hope to burn in his heart.

“Because I’ll go with him,” Stark persisted. “And we’ll use Fury to put it together. He has a vested interest in Bruce being available. If he’s traipsing _incognito_ over all available landmasses on the planet, that’s going to get difficult for him to do.”

“I don’t know—” Bruce began.

“We have to try,” Steve demanded, a stubborn cast coming over his features. “You can’t go on the way you have. It’s too much for anyone to handle.”

Banner looked at them both, seeing the determination on their faces. He threw up his hands. “All right. We can try, for all the good it’ll do.”

“You’re such an optimist,” Tony complained. “Time for dinner. I’m starving, and you, Dr. Grumpy, need to eat. Nevermind the eternal internal combustion engine with legs over here,” he continued, pointing at Rogers with a grimace.

“Hey! I’ve got a quick metabolism,” he countered, grinning at Bruce and grasping his arm to help him off the couch and guide him out the door.

It felt easy, relaxed, and Bruce let himself go with it.

 

 

A few days later, he wasn’t quite as certain. Fury had set up the meeting with Ross on the helicarrier. A SHIELD jet brought them onboard just a half-hour before the meeting, not giving Bruce much time to get even more nervous about the entire situation than he already was. He could still remember pieces of the last time he’d been on the ‘carrier, and they weren’t pleasant.

Steve was on his right and Tony on his left, both dressed in suits, while Bruce had opted for a more professorial jacket and slacks. In the four days since his suicide attempt, they had never left his side, one of them always nearby. It would be kind, if it weren’t so unnerving at the same time. Tony had filled his closets to overflowing with clothes, and had reconfigured the labs so that theirs were just a glass door away from each other. Bruce was no longer allowed to be without a minder, and a body that could physically stop him from “stupidity” as Tony had phrased it, was always in the Tower.

Rogers had his Cap face on, the one that had made Loki and the Red Skull hesitate, while Tony was at his most businesslike and impressive. Bruce didn’t have another face to wear; he was stuck wearing the one God gave him with all its weaknesses showing.

He was absolutely terrified. He held onto his courage with everything he had, knowing that the Other Guy wanted to squash Ross under his heel with all the violent passion of which he was capable.

Steve settled next to Bruce around the table in Fury’s conference room, while Tony stood at the other end, speaking with the director. Natasha stood demurely at his side, her identity hidden beneath a plum dress with a narrow belt, and a necklace that looked like it doubled as a weapon. Knowing Natasha, it probably did. She winked at him, and stayed near Fury.

Ross’ arrival was subdued. He looked older than he had when they had last met, and was carrying his alcoholism like a red mask around his face. He had with him a tough-looking colonel and a sergeant, both of whom appeared to be Special Forces, dressed all in black with matching Kevlar combat vests, and huge side arms.

“I don’t believe that these gentlemen will be necessary, general,” Fury said.

“I’d feel safer if they stayed,” Ross replied, his voice rasping over the syllables. “After all, the last time this man was on this ship, fifty men died, wasn’t it? Or were the figures actually higher?”

“Dr. Banner didn’t cause those casualties, General Ross,” the Director pointed out, “Loki did, as you are aware, so let’s not get off on the wrong foot. I believe you know everyone here.”

“Even if I don’t, it won’t matter in a few minutes. I came here as a courtesy, nothing more.”

A moment later, Agent Sitwell entered, smiled at the group and sat down next to Steve, while Tony took position on Bruce’s other side. He appeared bored, never a good thing with Tony.

“All right; so what am I doing here?” the general asked. “I’ve allowed that your forces are responsible should Banner transform today and will be present when he kills you. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Bruce only changes under threat,” Tony said loudly. “And at present, you _are_ the threat.”

Ross guffawed. “So I’m responsible for his being a monster?”

“Almost literally,” Stark snapped, but cool, so very cool. “It was you who gave his father the tools to recreate the Super Soldier serum; it was you who realized he was experimenting on his son; it was you who took Bruce away and had his memory . . . shall we say . . . repressed?”

“It was you, wasn’t it, who chased Bruce even when he was protecting your daughter? First, at her cabin in Virginia, then at Culver University?” Steve added, leaning forward, his eyes blazing.

“Wasn’t it you who authorized the ‘treatment’ that created the creature known as the Abomination? The thing that the Hulk fought to prevent its’ killing you and your daughter?” Sitwell added politely, his professional veneer so chill as to be arctic. It was obvious that he was a protégé of Coulson’s. “She survived not one, but three attacks, because of him. And yet, you want to contain him, if not kill him outright. Interesting parenting skills.”

Tony did his best not to laugh.

“Dr. Banner and his work are the property of the United States government, gentlemen. He will be taken into custody—”

“Ah, see, that’s not going to happen. It will _never_ happen,” Tony insisted, “because you don’t understand anything about him.”

“Stark, you may know a lot about munitions, but obviously less than squat about monsters. What is it that you think I need to understand?”

Fury calmly interjected, “That the Hulk’s entire function is to protect Bruce Banner. Period. When he chooses to, he protects other people, like your daughter, or all of New York City. Why, however, would he continue to do that when you insist on treating him like Charles Manson’s crazier brother?”

“From a psychological perspective, Banner is only dangerous when _in danger_ ,” Natasha added softly. “As we saw in New York, when he chooses to release the Hulk, the creature responds to his request. If, however, he is attacked, and Banner’s control slips, the Hulk’s only purpose is to protect Bruce, from anyone he sees as a threat.” She cleared her throat, shifted in her chair, her lips pursed. “Having been in that unenviable position, I can tell you that your pursuit of Dr. Banner escalates an already difficult situation, and places entire populations at risk.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t agree with any of this psycho-babble. Banner is no more a man than this chair. He’s a thing, to be used, or discarded. You’re protecting a monster, a killer, devoid of even a semblance of humanity.”

“Then explain his love for your daughter,” Natasha responded promptly. “Explain the fact that you and she are still alive. Explain why Banner _chose_ to jump out of an aircraft in order to frighten himself enough to change into the Hulk to deter the Abomination, after a cure had been attempted. Explain that, General; I’d like to hear it.”

Ross sat back. He appeared suddenly tired of the fight.

The room went quiet for a long time.

“You hate me. I get that.” Bruce finally broke the silence, his voice soft and contained. “I hurt you; I scared you and caused you to doubt your ability to command an army in the field.” He caught Ross’ eyes. “You put my father into an asylum, maybe saving my life.” Ross nodded in agreement. “Oh, he would have killed me, sooner or later. Yet even after you knew what he had done, the genetic manipulation, of him, of me, you let me live. I wondered why. Since you don’t understand the concept of pity it couldn’t be that. So why then?”

Bruce stood up, and began to slowly walk around the table, talking as he went, his hands winding around each other nervously. “You made it possible for me to work and study at Culver, to continue the serum work using gamma radiation. That was successful for both of us. But you know, I never did understand how we had an accident that night. Betty and I were meticulous about the gamma emitter; it should have been in perfect working order. But it wasn’t . . . and I don’t know why.”

He paused and let the words sink in, as he came nearer to Ross, and fought to keep his voice steady. “You were going to take the project away; that much I did know. Were you worried I’d make a fuss? That I’d fight you on it? A disaster in the lab would remove my credibility as a scientist, maybe even kill me considering the hard radiation streams we were working with. And Betty was supposed to be having an early evening, dinner with a friend from college she hadn’t seen in a while. The friend had to cancel unexpectedly, which was why she was there that night. Otherwise, you never would have risked her, would you?” he said softly, behind Ross’ back, knowing he was right when the man stiffened in his chair.

“So, in the end, it was _you_ who created the Other Guy.”

Tony stared at him, his mouth slightly opened, gaze shocked and becoming angry. “No fucking way. Are you _shitting_ me?”

“Afraid not,” Bruce replied as he returned to his seat, satisfied to finally, after so long, know the truth. “Machiavelli had nothing on you, Ross. I was always your experiment.”

“Which changes nothing,” he replied, blue-grey eyes sharp and terrible, full of fear and unquenchable animosity. “You still are my experiment, Banner. You belong to me, from the blood in your veins to the hair on your head. I _own_ you. What are you going to do about it, you whiney little pissant?”

His hate flowed out and contaminated the air around him.

“Even I know you can’t own a person, general,” Steve snapped, tapping his big fist on the table. “Bruce Banner belongs to himself alone according to international law. “

“But he does have a very good case against the United States government, which Stark Industries will be happy to prosecute to the fullest extent with all our abundant legal and media resources,” Stark chirped cheerfully.

“By means of SHIELD’s fully classified and confidential network and cooperation,” Fury added.

“Plus the support of the Avengers,” Steve put in, “and our not inconsiderable assistance.”

“We’ll destroy you,” Natasha said quietly, her blue eyes laser-like in their intensity.

“Utterly,” Sitwell insisted. “Your _important_ friends in government and finance will be so busy backpedalling that they’ll leave you in the wind to swing, alone.”

“We will take everything of value you own,” Natasha said.

“Every asset,” Tony inserted.

“Every iota of respect and professionalism,” Fury continued.

“And obliterate it and you,” Sitwell finished. “By the time we’re finished, no one will remember your name or where to send the social security checks. You won’t be getting a pension.”

A full five minutes lapsed as the general considered his options and strategy going forward. Then, Ross growled, “Unless?”

“You leave Banner alone,” Steve replied. “No teams, no kidnapping, no darts to the neck, no using other agencies to do your dirty work — nothing. He’s off the grid as far as you are concerned.”

“He becomes an Avengers asset only, under my direction,” Fury said.

“And your responsibility?”

Bruce looked at Fury, waiting for his response.

“My direct responsibility, under Agent Sitwell’s supervision.”

Ross sucked his teeth and glared at Bruce, outmaneuvered for the moment at least. “You little bastard. Couldn’t do it by yourself, but you gave yourself to enough real men to make it worth their while to protect you.”

Bruce ignored the words; they couldn’t hurt him. _Nobody’s ass is that good_ , he thought hazily _._

“Idiots,” Ross snarled loudly enough to make Tony jump as he stood and stepped away from the table. “To Hell with all of you. I hope he eats you slowly, right down to chewing your beating hearts, and making toothpicks out of your bones. Because he will!” he yelled, gesturing wildly. “And after he does, after you’re all dead, he’ll come back to me because I understand monsters.”

“You should,” Tony muttered to the man’s retreating back. “You are one.”

At the door, Ross turned and caught Bruce’s eyes. His voice turned soft, intimate, for his ears alone. “She was so beautiful in her wedding dress, Bruce. He’s a _very_ lucky man. But then, he _is_ a man.” He chuckled harshly, hate darkening his eyes. “I’ll be watching. When they’ve had enough, when even the vaunted Avengers are afraid of the monster, I’ll take you down like the animal you really are. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t get comfortable. It won’t last.”

The door slammed shut behind him and his men.

Banner didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until that moment.

The room rang with the silence that followed.

“Well, isn’t he a charmer,” Steve said mildly, and for some reason Bruce found that terribly funny. He laughed until he couldn’t laugh any more, and the tears came instead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony watch over a sleeping Bruce.

Bruce had been quiet and withdrawn for the rest of the day, but neither Steve nor Tony had called himon it after they returned to the Tower. After learning what he had of the man’s past, Steve was disgusted by Ross’s tactics with regard to the scientist. He couldn’t imagine the kind of psyche it took to do the things he had to Banner, the manipulation, followed by the relentless pursuit he had orchestrated over the past seven years.

_What effects had it had on the man Bruce was today?_

Steve could only be glad that it had been Colonel Phillips who had been in control of Project: Rebirth. If it had been someone like Ross . . . Steve couldn’t imagine how it would have turned out. Would he have been locked in some kind of Army base, subject to any experiment a scientist could concoct? _How was it that I had been so fortunate and Banner not?_

The contradictions in their positions couldn’t have been made more manifest; Captain America was idolized, while the Hulk? Feared but usable, at best; deadly and animalistic, at worst, fit only for destruction.

And Banner? Battered and abused from youth, taught to accept what had been offered and ask for nothing more, Bruce was still reaching to find some solidity in his world. He had been made a monster. Perhaps it hadn’t been planned, but the seeds had been planted by others nonetheless. He was left with only the remnants of a life. Rogers could understand that. He was flailing himself to find some purpose he could latch onto, some friends and family he could create to take the place of the ones he had lost.

He watched Bruce sleep, the man collapsing more from nervous exhaustion than anything else. It had been obvious to Steve from the beginning that facing Ross was terrifying to him, each of Banner’s personal monsters expressed in one man. It had taken all of his will not to reach across the table and slap the general into unconsciousness, he was that offensive. Steve knew he wouldn’t be wearing anything remotely like the uniform Ross wore in future, simply because he couldn’t imagine the expression on Banner’s face if he did.

Bruce was quiet, not shifting much, and sleeping soundly.

“Jarvis? How’s he doing?”

“Doctor Banner’s sleep patterns are indicative of a normal REM pattern. He is resting more completely than he has since he took up residence.”

“Really? Why, do you think?”

“I believe, though I cannot say for certain, it is due to your presence, Captain Rogers.”

Steve’s mouth quirked up in a bashful smile. “Oh.”

“Indeed.”

_He trusts me,_ Steve realized. _For a man like Bruce . . . that’s everything._

_Do I feel the same? Can I?_

He remembered the way the Hulk had caught Iron Man as he fell, how it was his growl that brought Stark back from the dimness of death. _There was more to Bruce Banner than the creature, just as there was more to the Hulk than a behemoth. The Hulk felt fear, anger, joy, disgust, satisfaction, pleasure, pain. . . . There were more similarities than not between man and monster, more than Bruce was comfortable with. Could there ever be a meeting between minds? Was the Hulk’s mind completely separate from Banner’s as the scientist believed? Was he a distinct personality, as he professed? Or was it more likely the response of a timid, frightened, abused child that brought out the true depths of the Hulk’s persona?_

Steve doubted they’d ever know if Bruce himself was unwilling to ask the questions.

Tony’s entrance was quiet, soft-footed, but Steve heard him anyway. He’d been in the lab, a place Rogers had learned was the best place for Stark to deal with emotions that disturbed him. Banner’s emotional lockout had bothered Tony the most, though he hadn’t said anything. He had been his shadow when they’d returned, to the point where Bruce had asked him to step back so he could read without his hovering presence. It had been said mildly enough, but Tony had been embarrassed anyway and had soon excused himself to his lab. When Steve asked, Jarvis informed him that Mr. Stark was working, but didn’t elaborate on what.

“How’s he doing?” he asked softly, sitting on the back of the couch behind Rogers, where he could look on the slumbering man.

“Good. He’s been out for hours now.”

“Nightmares?”

“Not so far.”

“You know, he can change when he sleeps,” Tony warned, his expression apprehensive.

“I know. Jarvis will warn me before it happens.”

“Want me to stay with him for a while?”

“You can if you want. I’ll just sack out here.” Steve patted the heavy leather couch. He didn’t feel right leaving until Bruce was awake. If Banner felt safe when he was here, then he wouldn’t go without telling him.

Tony’s arms crossed against his chest and he seemed to hug himself.

“Cold?”

The genius nodded distractedly. “My bio-rhythms usually drop around four.”

Steve just looked at him, knowing his expression demanded an explanation. He’d gotten very good at asking a question without saying much of anything.

Stark grimaced. “Everyone has a natural cycle to their body. You like to wake up at six and go run. I like to work until six, and then sleep. See? My body, however, wants to sleep at four, so it slows down a little, and I feel cold. Get it?”

“Got it.” Steve stood up and stretched, then took a spare blanket off Bruce’s bed and tossed it to Tony. When he got back from the bathroom, Tony was spread out over the couch. For a man who wasn’t particularly tall, he did know how to take up room. Deciding between his feet or his head, Steve chose his head, and lifted it onto his lap. Stark looked up at him in surprise, but didn’t complain.

“I think we got this a little backwards. Wasn’t I the one who was supposed to stay awake, and you sleep?”

Steve considered that. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll hear him moving, even if I’m asleep. As long as you don’t snore too loud,” he added, just to irritate the other man.

“That’s one thing Pepper never complained about,” Tony insisted, not taking the bait, and settled himself more comfortably.

“Just everything else, huh?”

Stark shrugged, moving against Steve’s thigh. “Not everyone can live with a superhero-genius-philanthropist-billionaire,” he said casually, then after a few minutes murmured, “To be fair, she tried. I think the Avengers were just her last straw. She couldn’t handle me being in constant danger.”

“Cop’s wives deal with it,” Steve muttered. “Federal agents, firemen—”

“Okay, well, you have to stop thinking 20th century, and more like _hookups, hanging out, baby daddies, baby mommas,_ then _husbands, wives, partners,_ that sort of thing. Otherwise you’ll sound sexist and women hate that these days. Besides, Pepper didn’t start out with me expecting a lot of what eventually happened.” He looked up at him, gaze earnest even upside-down. “Maybe I didn’t love her so much as the idea of being with her. Because when it came down to it, choosing between her and the suit was not a choice. Not in my mind.”

“So how is it with you and her now?”

“Why, Rogers, looking for a date?” he teased, eyes sparkling, nudging Steve’s thigh with his shoulder.

“Funny. _No._ My experience with women is between zero and none, Stark, which is why I’m asking. Can you still be friends? She does run your company, after all.”

“And, admittedly, does a better job of it than I ever did. It probably helps to be pretty when dealing with the Board,” he mused.

“To-ny. Pepper?”

“Sorry.” He hesitated, and then said, “We’re fine. We’re actually better than fine, now that I don’t have to worry about her getting hurt while I’m being all superhero-y, or not being able to make dates or meetings because of Vanko or AIM trying to kill me, or HYDRA stealing my tech. . . .”

Steve tapped him on the head to bring him back to now.

“Yeah, and Happy adores the ground she walks on, which is the way it should be. She loves the Malibu mansion, can run SI from there, only needing to come East occasionally.” He hesitated, and he looked away, so Steve couldn’t see his eyes. “Does it hurt? What do you think?”

Steve could tell when Tony was getting too close to his real emotions; his hands began waving around to aid in his explanations.

“But at least she left without stealing from me, or trying to kill me. There’s a lot to be said for that. I think I’ll be able to go to her wedding without wanting to toss myself off a _roof_ ,” he finished sleepily.

Rogers dropped a hand onto Tony’s shoulder and rested it there. There was always some truth beneath all Stark’s words; you just had to sift and sort to find it.

Silence reigned for all of a minute before Bruce’s voice said, “Don’t count on it, shell-head. Steve and I will be pouring you into a car to get you home and I will lay 10 to 1 odds on it. And I’ve never gambled in my life.”

Tony chuckled. “ ‘Shell-head’? You’ve been talking to Rhodey too much. But more to the point, you’re gambling on us, Brucie.”

What sounded like an irritated grunt followed. “Don’t call me that. And, my nannies can either be quiet or go to their own beds. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Hey, we’re at least Super-Nannies,” Tony mumbled.

Steve looked down at him and smiled. Stark was deeply asleep in less than a minute. He looked over at Banner and asked softly, “You okay, Bruce?”

There was a slight pause. “Yeah, thanks. Today was tough, you know? There was a lot I needed to process.”

Rogers bit his lip, and then admitted, “I don’t think I have ever been ashamed of being a member of the Armed Forces before, but I was today.” He hesitated, and then blurted, “At least I _volunteered_ for the project.”

Bruce sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with one big hand. “Don’t beat yourself up, Steve. It’s all on Ross.” He shrugged. “I guess I always knew it, but didn’t want to believe that anyone could be that devious. Especially when I was so close to Betty.” He hesitated, and then asked, “You’re the strategist; what do you rate the chances he’ll really back off?”

Steve considered the variables. He let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes. Tony was warm and solid under his hand, his head heavy on his leg. “From the intel Stark has gathered, Ross has been losing support for his personal and public witch-hunt. Add SHIELD, S.I., us . . . popular sentiment for the Avengers . . . as long as the Other Guy keeps his clothes on, and doesn’t get caught on camera stealing a lollipop from a kid, I don’t see there being a problem with Ross.”

“I heard that pause, Steve. Unless?” Bruce’s voice was dark and deep, a worried pitch lengthening his consonants.

“Unless . . . he’s as crazy as I think he might be. Then, we might have a hitch in our plans.”

“I like the way you throw that ‘we’ around so casually, Steve. Thor’s still on Asgard, he doesn’t even know what’s happened, and Hawkeye’s on assignment in Tel Aviv—”

“Bruce, Clint has your back. So would Thor if he were here. I _know_ that. So do you.” He opened his eyes and gazed on his shadowed form, Bruce’s expression tight. “On some level, you have to.”

“I want to. I really do.”

His voice sounded so weary, so _beaten_. Steve didn’t know what else to say. “If you have no one else, Bruce, you have me. You have Tony. Can you believe that?”

It took a long while, but he finally answered. “I can.” He gave a wan, but real, smile. “Really. Thanks. G’night.”

“Good night.”

Steve’s mind was unwilling to do any more analysis, and soon shut down on him. Half-way asleep, he carded his hand through Tony’s hair, barely noticing the soothing action, only recognizing the sense of contentment it gave him before he let sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to Brooke_Lynn and our favorite autodidact Agent_Orange_III.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team that plays together, stays together.

Ushering Steve into the 21st century meant that there were a _few_ things he neededto catch up on.

Bruce gave him paper books on history, culture, and literature.

Stark was carefully inculcating Rogers into the technology age, minus the snarky commentary about his intellect after Steve had dangled him off the penthouse balcony to clarify how little he liked it.

Natasha explained the sexual revolution and the devolution of Communism, from a Russian perspective (which had to be hilarious), and escorted him to plays and musicals on the Great White Way.

Clint took him out and about, to restaurants, bars, sporting events, strip joints (once), and concerts (often). They also made almost daily pilgrimages to Coulson’s Greenwich Village apartment, to update him on the goings-on, or to get him out and around, carefully.

It was going to take time to get Coulson back on his feet; the agent had lost almost 30 pounds and muscle loss had to be compensated for. While Tony had hoped the agent would choose to recuperate in the Tower, his preference was for his own place with Clint or Natasha as his chauffeurs/bodyguards. His schedule included daily physical therapy to strengthen his body from the terrible trauma of the attack, the subsequent surgeries and coma required to save his life, as well as psychotherapy to deal with any issues the near-death experience had caused him. Bruce did not envy that therapist. Phil’s coolness under threat was near-legend at SHIELD and he wouldn’t divulge his emotions easily. Hopefully, his desire to get back to work would circumvent his natural reticence and therapy would be quick and relatively painless.

While Phil understood that Fury had lied to his team, the team itself was not so prosaic and clear-thinking on the issue. Fury’s subterfuge had festered from the proverbial thorn in all their sides to a wound, any trust they may have had in the Director splintered and fractured from the pressure. That Clint had been placed on a ten-day suspension after his “conversation” with the director, did not help the anger any.

The situation with SHIELD at this point was one of guarded truce. The team had met to discuss their options. One, to remain with SHIELD as the Avengers Initiative; Two, to disconnect from SHIELD’s assistance entirely and form a legal entity known as ‘The Avengers,’ which could open them to all sorts of legal liabilities; Three, to disband; or Four, to continue assisting SHIELD, but under no legal requirement to follow their command structure, i.e. Fury and the Council.

They were still determining the best course, and it would take time to find the right arrangement that would work for all of them.

In the meanwhile, apart from training and necessary public appearances, the group had formed a standing Thursday night date to sit in the common room of the penthouse after dinner and watch movies. In an effort to prevent arguments over what film to watch, Jarvis had been dedicated “Master of Movies” and was systematically going through every film there ever was from the day Steve went into the ice.

Tonight the AI had slated “Arsenic and Old Lace” the old howler with Cary Grant. It had come out in 1944, and though Ted Turner had colorized it in subsequent copies, in order to preserve the director’s vision Jarvis would be showing it in black and white.

Tony got the drinks while Clint made more popcorn than was feasible for all of them to eat. Steve brought boxes of _Milk Duds_ and Natasha carried in a couple of handmade quilts for them all to snuggle under. Bruce brought a bag of little containers of _Ike & Mikes_ and a book. Not that he didn’t like dark comedies, but he was easily bored by movies in general and usually preferred to split his focus.

The couch was moved so that it was in the perfect, central position. Steve sat in the middle, with Tony on his right, and Clint on his left. Bruce and Natasha took up flanking spots in recliners on either side, and everyone had their own bowl of popcorn, until they ran out and started digging into everyone else’s. Bruce and Steve usually divided the _Milk Duds_ , and everyone grabbed a handful of the candies. If Thor had been there, Clint would probably have been relegated to the floor at Natasha’s feet, with the demi-god taking over the recliner, leaving Bruce on Steve’s left.

Half-way through, Clint got up to get a drink, and Tony took over the end, leaning into Bruce. “What’s the matter? Movie boring?”

“No, no. It’s a good one. Grant was a genius at comedy.”

Stark took Bruce’s immunology text, glanced at the cover, and handed it over to Steve. “Toss that over onto the dining table, would you?”

Without argument, Rogers did. Chivvied by Tony into moving, Bruce took Clint’s seat. He was left with Tony’s arm across his shoulders, eating his popcorn, filching his candy and cackling in his ear. Clint settled himself at their feet, comfortably leaning against Bruce’s legs. There was no way to avoid their insistent affection, so Bruce gave up the fight. He allowed it to wash over him, warm and protective, leaving a sense of belonging he had never known before.

By the time the movie ended, he had let himself entertain the idea that in these people he had found a home, maybe even a family . . . for however long it lasted. He wasn’t so naïve as to believe that Ross would give up, no matter what Stark and Rogers or even SHIELD wanted. No. Such peace was never to be his.

But for the moment, this . . . was fine.

 

 

Tuesday had become game night, Bruce was reminded when he absently wandered into the common room one evening after dinner.

Steve, Clint, and Tony were around the dining table, intent on the game board between them. Bruce took a peach yogurt from the fridge, grabbed a spoon, and wandered over to them.

“I still think that we’d like the web version better,” Tony grumbled.

They were playing _Life_. Bruce held back a snicker and leaned against Steve’s chair. “Couldn’t find anything more exciting?”

Steve smiled at him. “Hey. Want to join us?”

He settled into the chair next to Steve, nodding at the others. Tony was slumped over, his chin on one hand, while Clint was focused on the board, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. “Don’t think so. Why this game?”

“We can’t play _Monopoly_ or _Operation_ because I’d always win,” Tony said with a wry grin, pointing to his head and then waving the hands of an engineer. “And _Trouble_ gives me a headache, it’s so boring. Maybe _Jenga?_ ”

“No chess, checkers, _Risk_ , _Stratego_ or _Battleship_ ,” Clint told him, “because Steve would kick both our asses. And has proven it a few times already.”

“ _Jeopardy_ or _Trivial Pursuit_ wouldn’t be fair to Steve,” Tony said, with a glint in his eyes, “or Clint. And we end up fighting when we play _Sorry!_ ”

“Hey!” the archer complained, moving his car around the board 3 spaces. “I’m not socially or intellectually stunted, Stark, even if I did grow up in a circus! And I did have to pass my GEDs to get into SHIELD, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tony replied, using his hand to mime a mouth talking. “We’re trying a little bit of everything right now. Next week, it’s _Mille Bornes_ or _Uno._ ”

Bruce scratched his head. Their skill sets did make simple things less so. “How about _Yahtzee_ or _Scrabble?_ ” He couldn’t imagine what would happen if they tried _Twister_.

“Good idea. J, order those two, would you? And see that Bruce is reminded when we’re playing, so he had no excuses for not showing up _after_ I’ve reminded him twice already.”

Bruce shrugged. “I show up for poker, don’t I?”

“Sometimes, and never on the nights when I want to fleece someone.”

“Such a hard life you’ve got,” Bruce teased, dipping his spoon into the yogurt, and watching the game. In three more minutes, Clint won, basically because the other two had been focusing on Bruce.

Steve turned to him. “What color car do you want to be? I’m blue, Tony’s red, Clint is orange....”

Clint plunked down a little green car. “There ya go, doc!”

He glanced down at the board, and then to his teammates. “I’m sure I have something vital I need to do right now.”

Steve grabbed his arm and pulled back him down as he tried to escape.

“Yeah, yeah, I tried that already,” Tony said. “Captain Hotpants vetoed me, and I’m vetoing you. So sit down while I go get another drink.”

“And pretzels with my beer,” Clint called out.

“This is why I have robots, Barton!”

“Yeah, but they’re special ed. If I asked for a beer, I might get lemon juice.”

“Are you dissing my children? Jarvis, cold water for Barton’s shower.”

“Yes, sir,” the AI replied, his tone peeved. “And the adjustments to the exploding arrows? May just have to be delayed.”

Tony laughed out loud. “You did it now, Barton. You pissed off Jarvis and he can make your life difficult.”

“Sorry, Jarv. You know I love ya, baby, don’t’cha?”

Tony brought back iced tea for Bruce, lemonade for Steve, and bourbon for himself, absently tossing a beer and the pretzel bag at Barton. “Just for that, Smart-ass, you go last.”

Bruce ended up with three adopted boys, too much life insurance, and a green car. And had laughed himself into aching sides by the time Steve just squeaked past Tony for the win.

Later that night, with just a touch of glee, he asked Jarvis to order _Twister_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my patient Merlyn Emrys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle brings some interesting things to light.

That Friday afternoon, they were called out to the Verrazano-Narrows bridge,where a creature that appeared to be a bony cousin of the Hulk’s split with Godzilla had begun crushing cars and buses as they raced across the span. It was tougher than it looked and that was saying something; the thing was easily four times the Hulk’s size and weight.

Steve considered their tactics: Iron Man was out — he’d left for Malibu yesterday to deal with some business issues only he could clear. Thor was in New Mexico with Jane, so it was up to the Hulk to deal with this guy.

Cap’s directions were clear. “Lead him away from the bridge, Hulk, okay? Then smash him!” He noticed the Hulk responded best to clear commands.

The big green guy smiled his toothy best, and swung up onto one to the steel cables that held the bridge attached to the main pylons. Cap frowned; he did not want to be the man known as having directed the destruction of the Verrazano. It would be almost as bad as obliterating the Brooklyn Bridge. Hawkeye went high, running up the swaying cables faster than most people could run on land, to watch the fight and relay information, while Natasha directed terrified citizens and protected anyone who looked to be injured, until the NYPD and FDNY could get them out of their damaged vehicles.

Steve moved forward to distract the creature and got swatted into the murky Narrows for his trouble. As he slammed into the water, continuing momentum pushed him downwards. Uncharacteristically, he panicked, unable to immediately orient himself to find the surface through the murky greenish depths. He swallowed a little brackish seawater, noted light out of the corner of his eye, and shot to the surface with couple of hard kicks, the shield dragging his arm down. The water was cool but not unseasonable, and once he tucked the shield on his back again, he was able to swim to land without difficulty. If he was shaking more than a dunking in the bay should cause, he told himself to ignore it and focus.

The Hulk got the ugly grey spiky monster to dry land, and then they went at it. Fortunately, the land they chose had already been evacuated, a former military academy/fort turned museum. Unfortunately, their battle decimated the brick buildings, but better that than civilians and the bridge.

It was a nasty, brutal fight, and when it was over, the monster was down. It wasn’t dead; while the Hulk could easily kill and had, Cap noticed that he avoided it whenever possible. The big guy was bloody and seriously bruised, his nose was broken, a few fingers too, the ribs on his left side crushed inward, and he was breathing blood. As the soldier watched, the long bones began to straighten out and heal, his ability to regenerate so much faster than Steve’s he almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The green Avenger made a few grunting noises as it happened, but didn’t seem to find anything odd about it. He leaned down, grabbed the grey monster by the ankle, bounced it on its head a few more times, then dragged it over to Steve and dropped it, like a pet cat bringing a sparrow to its owner.

Cap smiled and tried not to laugh. “Good job, Hulk!” He patted a huge arm. “Thanks!”

The goliath shrugged and rubbed an itch on his nose. He settled down on top of the grey monster like it was a chair, and after a while, a shivering and shuddering Hulk reduced in size and color until he was Banner again. Thankfully, it looked far less painful than the other way around.

SHIELD agents swarmed the area now that the fight was over, walking around the monster and poking it occasionally to see if it was still unconscious. Unless it suddenly woke up, (and Cap had doubts about it ever doing that), the team was free to return to Sitwell and debrief. It was likely that the creature would be recovered and given over to their scientists to learn what they could from it. The bland agent sat on the front bumper of his SHIELD jeep, casually tapping into his phone, while directing other agents what to do and where to go. His bald head was covered by a SHIELD ball cap. He was maybe 5’7” and well-built, but he was more caustic than Coulson, and had an edge that the other man hadn’t ever needed to be obeyed in the field. As an interim liaison he would do, but never for the long term. Neither Clint nor Natasha liked him all that well — Cap thought that as long as Coulson was alive and recovering, they would refuse to consider transferring their allegiance to his protégé. They treated him politely but that was all. If it bothered Sitwell, he gave no sign that Cap could see.

Banner fell off the beast, unconscious, and Steve reached out to catch him before he landed on the ground. Sometimes it took the scientist a while to come back from his transformation to the Other Guy and the harder the fight, the longer it took. After the Chitauri invasion and Tony’s insistence on shawarma, Banner had been out cold for six hours and exhausted and in bed for another full day.

Sitwell tossed Cap a duffel bag, containing clothing for Bruce. It was Hawkeye’s turn to dress the unconscious man and he did it with the efficiency, awareness, and care that Cap had begun to associate with Barton. Banner hated the way he came back naked, lacking a protective uniform that could hide who he was and the team had noticed and planned accordingly.

Watching Barton gently dealing with the unconscious Banner reminded Steve of their recent confrontation with Fury about Coulson and his ‘death.’

It had been almost two weeks after the Chitauri invasion and the team had just held a training session in one of the three gyms in the Tower. Iron Man vs. Thor, Clint vs. Hulk, and Widow vs. Steve, with Jarvis as the ref. Not that anyone really won these sessions; it was more necessary that they learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses, to be able to compensate in the field, and know when a teammate was in trouble.

Director Fury had arrived at the last part, when only Steve and Tasha were still fighting. The director had remained quiet but Tasha immediately noticed him, and flipped away from Cap’s attack, pointing at the entrance. “Fury,” she’d mouthed, and Steve had stopped his assault and turned. She took that moment to leap on his back, pull off his cowl, and give him a kiss on the cheek. He chuckled and carried her over to the director, where the rest of them stood. She slid off of him and moved closer to Barton, their expressions closed and professional, waiting for Fury to speak.

The director stood there, in his usual blacker than black clothes, a mixture of — _what did Tony call it?_ — “Shaft,” “Blacula,” and John Wayne. Steve didn’t get all the references yet, but he would. Jarvis advised that two were movies, and he already knew who John Wayne was.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush here, people. Coulson’s alive.”

The team had continued to gaze at him, calmly. Not one of had them given any expression of surprise.

“Is that a fact?” Barton murmured, coming forward and smiling. Steve thought it was the odd smile covering barely controlled wrath that should have given him away. The fist he slammed into Fury’s jaw was so sudden the crunch of the bone shattering could barely be heard over the sound of Barton’s curse of pain as he shook his fist. Fury hit the floor in a pile of black cloth, his groan slowly fading as he lost consciousness.

“Damn it, Barton, you were supposed to wait until he tried to explain,” Stark had mock-grumbled, slowly moving with Steve to pick the limp director off the gleaming wood panel of the gym floor, and onto a pile of blue mats to cushion him.

“He lied to us, Stark! There’s no explanation for that. Not to Tasha, not to me!” Barton snarled, his eyes almost grey in his anger.

Natasha chuckled as she stared down at Fury’s body. “Hulk? I think we’re going to need Bruce back,” she said to the green behemoth that was standing behind her. She patted his arm. “Think you can make that happen?”

“Fury stupid,” he snarled, and turned away, but not before he brushed a finger across Clint’s hair, a sign of his affection for the archer.

Banner’s return was achieved with a minimum of fuss, though he had the usual difficulty with fine-motor skills and squinted a lot after the change. Steve thought he probably had a headache of skull-pounding proportions as he watched him pull on a pair of pants.

The doctor knelt down by the slowly-waking man, palpated his jaw gently, and muttered, “Oh, yeah, it’s broken, all right. Nick, you really don’t want to open your mouth right now. You’re going to need to get that jaw wired, and talking’s definitely not recommended at the moment.”

One dark eye glared at Barton, who glowered back with no appearance of guilt, Natasha leaning against his shoulder, equally unapologetic.

“Of course we knew Coulson wasn’t dead,” Tony said, his tone withering. “The memorial service was a nice touch, but there was no body in the casket. We checked. His apartment was packed up, but his belongings not disposed of. His family hadn’t even been notified.”

Steve said, “We found him two days after the attack, in a medically induced coma under the name Phillip Johannson, in a Boulder, Colorado rehabilitation center.”

“I conferred with his doctors, and agreed that it was best to let him heal further, before bringing him out of it,” Bruce added.

“Then, we followed as SHIELD transported him back to New York in a Quinjet. Thor even followed the jet, just in case it had any problems. Once on the ground, we took over security,” Tasha said icily.

“You should not have kept this from us. It was a grave mistake on your part. And to lie to us to begin with — it is not the actions of a leader,” Thor said disdainfully, barely even looking at the fallen man, his expression condescending, shoulders relaxed under the broad width of his armor. “I will seek recompense for such treachery from you at a later date.”

Steve almost chuckled at the way Fury’s eye widened. Thor wasn’t known for idle threats.

“I understood your motives, sir,” Steve said calmly, as he helped Banner stand, then handed him over to Tony to hold up. “We needed someone or something outside of ourselves that we would fight for, that would give us group cohesion and solidarity. Coulson’s death did that.” He sighed. “Fine; you manipulated us to get what you and the planet needed.”

He crouched down next to the director and watched as he struggled to sit up.

“But then you didn’t tell us the truth. You let the lie stand, knowing how it would hurt. Barton and Romanoff had been handled by Coulson for years — you didn’t even tell them.” Steve’s fist tightened in his glove, the noise of the leather stretching loud. “That was low, even for you. No defense, justification, or rationalization you could give would be sufficient. The team will decide how we plan to move forward, with or without SHIELD. We’ll let you know.”

Fury got to his feet, and his sigh was an epic thing.

He walked up to Clint, and in halting, clumsy sign language, told him something.

Barton’s eyes widened, and then he nodded, and assisted Fury to the elevator in silence.

Steve turned to Natasha to ask the question. She tossed her hair. “He said he was deeply sorry, but he didn’t believe Phil would live, and to put us through that twice was more than he was willing to do.”

“And?” Tony asked. “There was something else, wasn’t there?”

“It was for Clint alone—not the rest of us.”

“No secrets, Natasha,” Steve insisted.

She scowled. “It was private, Captain.”

Steve looked at Tony, and silently acknowledged the ‘let it go’ in the man’s eyes. He nodded, and the group broke up. Steve and Tony took Bruce to his apartment, while Natasha most likely went after Clint.

His thoughts returned to the present and what needed to be done in the aftermath of the Battle of the Bridge. Sitwell handled their debriefing with his usual efficiency. It wouldn’t take long to write up; the Hulk had done all the work and he wouldn’t be writing any reports. Widow and Hawkeye went to Coulson’s apartment afterwards, to assure him that they were okay, and Cap went to the medical division to see Banner.

Who wasn’t there.

“Where’s Dr. Banner?” he asked the lovely brunette with the name tag, Jimenez, RN. She had the kind of laugh that made it hard not to chime in, and soulful brown eyes. He tore himself away from them with difficulty.

“That man! He never sits still — said he was going to his room, if you know what that means.”

Cap smiled and nodded. “I think I do. Thanks.” He walked up to the containment area in the SHIELD building that had been constructed to restrain the Hulk. This version was intended to project the cylinder into the air and away from the highly populated city. He thought the idea foolish — having seen the gamma-green guy in action, he didn’t think that it would stand up to his rage, or give them the time or ability to herd him into it, or that in dire straits it could kill him. It did however, look efficient, which Cap guessed was what mattered to those people afraid of Banner and the Other Guy.

Bruce was looking at the dome, using a pen to check its rivets and footings, clucking absently as he did. When Cap moved up next him, he gave a wry smile. “It’s an interesting concept. But Stark hadn’t even met the Other Guy when he created it, and couldn’t possibly envision what would work on him.”

“I know they’ve asked him to re-design it. He refused.”

Banner’s eyes widened, and Cap couldn’t help but notice how bruised they looked, and how frail the scientist appeared after the battle. His brown gaze was wondering and surprised, all at once. “Really? I would have thought. . . .”

“The Hulk did save his life,” Cap reminded. “Thor never would have gotten to him in time to prevent his being crushed inside the suit like strawberry jam. And neither I nor Thor knew how to remove the chest-plate to do CPR, but the instinctive terror of something big and close roaring at him did the trick.” He leaned against the railings on the side of the capsule. “Did you even watch the rescue?”

“No,” Banner admitted, avoiding his gaze. “I really don’t like to see the resemblance his face bears to mine. It’s like a trick-image in a fun-house mirror, and just as horrifying.”

“I’m not scared of him, Bruce,” Cap pointed out. “Not that he couldn’t kill me; I’m absolutely certain he could. But he probably _wouldn’t_. And that’s the point neither Tony nor I think you’re getting.”

Banner sighed. “Can we agree to disagree on this and go home? I’m feeling like a steak and bed would be a good idea.”

“You look . . . exhausted,” Cap admitted. “I know that the fight was a tough one; for a while I wasn’t sure you’d win.”

“For every hour he’s out, I can lose up to 5 pounds of weight, depending on his level of activity. If he rests, it returns. But if he doesn’t, I feel like crap and it takes me a while to build back up.”

“Well, then, let’s make that steak happen,” Cap insisted, and led Banner to the elevator, and down to the lobby level where a SHIELD car waited to take them to the Tower.

Good as his word, as soon as Steve had showered and changed, he was in the coomon room kitchen making a hefty salad, two steaks sizzling on the grill with jacket potatoes, broiled asparagus with lemon, and Brussel sprouts, two vegetables Steve loathed but knew Bruce loved.

It was the first time that they had a quiet meal with just the two of them. They found they had a mutual love of chocolate, a dislike for opera and screechy sopranos in general, affection for kids, dogs, and horses, and a loathing for the military-industrial complex that had grown since World War II ended. They liked Kerouac, Asimov, Einstein, Ike, Powell, Wayne, Chaplin, and Buster Keaton; disliked Perez Hilton, Sarah Palin, Richard Nixon, the Kardashians, Donald Trump, most financial moguls, and all reality shows and infomercials, though Bruce admitted a guilty affection for _Dancing With The Stars_.

They were having a friendly discussion regarding the threats and benefits of nuclear weapons when Tony arrived and interrupted them, just as Bruce was outlining the results of nuclear winter and the disaster at Chernobyl.

“Oh my God,” Tony announced as he entered, pulling his tie away from his neck, “You went and had a fight with a big, bad, ugly monster without me. How _could_ you?”

Steve laughed and gave a shrug. “Sorry. It picked the same day you were out of town.”

“Probably checked your schedule,” Bruce added solemnly, but with a twitch to his mobile mouth.

“You’re both grounded,” Tony admonished and then grimaced. “Banner, you look—”

“Yeah, I know. It’ll pass.”

“Like the Black Death passed?”

“Ha, ha, funny.”

Stark turned to Steve, his gaze suddenly protective. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Exhaustion, mostly. It was a hard fight.”

“I saw. They were reporting it frame by frame. Big Guy looked messed up, bleeding, busted ribs. Are you hurt?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. By the time I change back, he’s usually healed it all. Just makes me really tired. And a little narrower than when I started out.”

“So you need to eat as much as the demi-god and the All-American over here,” Tony said, a frown between his eyes.

“If he’s going to be making regular guest appearances, then yes,” Bruce admitted. “I’ve never calculated the exact metabolic requirements for his needs, but they have to be enormous.”

“A layer of fat wouldn’t hurt you. At the moment, a Jabba the Hutt layer of fat wouldn’t hurt you.”

Bruce gave him a wry look. “You’re witty tonight. How was Malibu?”

“I’m always witty,” he retorted, as Steve got up to start clearing the table. “Malibu is beautiful; the board meeting for the Stark Foundation was the ugly part. Pep and I flew to D.C. and the meeting regarding financing for the Washington Tower was even worse. By the time we arrived at the White House, I was ready to tie one on.”

Steve sighed, but didn’t speak.

“But I didn’t,” Stark continued, grinning. “Just the thought of Captain Rogers looking at me like I’d peed in the Potomac was enough to keep me sober, if not sane.” He waved a hand, as if that wasn’t important. “The President sends his regards by the way, and hopes you will take the time from your busy schedule to come to Washington and lecture the House and Senate into getting some work done. Then I flew home. Which is where I am now.” He looked around like there should be some sort of applause. When he didn’t get any he let out a soft ‘hmf’ of disappointment.

“Just you _saying_ all that made me tired. I’m going to bed,” Bruce announced.

“Wait. Where?”

It was true that the three of them had been sleeping in or around the same bed since Banner’s suicide attempt, so it was a fair question.

“Tony, you don’t need to watch me. Jarvis can do that and obviously has. No privacy laws in Avengers Tower apparently.”

“Don’t diss the AI,” Tony growled, not distracted. “I don’t know if I can trust you yet, Bruce.”

Steve watched the struggle between them and waited for the outcome. Little did he know he was going to be the deciding vote, until they both turned to him. “Steve?”

He put down the dishes, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “People, as far as I know, don’t get over wanting to kill themselves in ten days, Bruce. If Tony’s being a little overprotective, then I am too.”

The scientist sighed. “Fine. But we’re sleeping in my room. I’m tired of doing the walk of shame when I don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

Tony chuckled, giving Bruce a lascivious wink. “Could always fix that for you, Bruce. Would be my pleasure, and I do mean that.”

“Speak for yourself, Tony,” Steve said with a smile. “I’m not molesting Bruce in his sleep.”

“Spoilsport. Goodie-goodie.” Tony continued to harangue Steve with disparagements until Bruce had gotten into the elevator and the doors closed. Stark blew out a breath and turned. “Thanks. I thought he might get tough about it.”

“So you got to meet the president, huh?” Steve asked, pouring water into the sink.

Tony just glanced at him, and then using his hip, moved him aside and opened the dishwasher. “Would you, please, let technology work for you? Please? Just in my little corner of the world?”

Steve looked from Tony to the dishes, and then nodded, yielding this particular fight. “The president?’ he reminded.

“Not the first time I’ve met him,” Tony admitted, pulling off his jacket and tie with relief, “but I _like_ this guy. He’s smart and not just politically.”

“I met President and Mrs. Roosevelt.” He shrugged. “Got to take a picture with General Eisenhower. Kissed Betty Grable. Shook hands with Albert Einstein.”

Tony glared at him. “Go ahead, make me jealous. _Einstein?_ _Really?_ I so hate you right now.”

Steve chuckled. “Envy’s ugly, Tony. There’s so much I haven’t done that you have — it isn’t even a challenge.”

Stark nodded, admitting that without an argument. “So, big grey monster? We know where it came from?’

“Fury thinks its AIM using their version of a super-soldier serum. Did you see the fight?”

“Yeah. Didn’t think the Hulk was going to make it. Which is pretty damned scary, considering he’s the strongest guy on the _planet_.”

“I was going to get its attention to give him a break, when suddenly, he got _stronger_.”

“I thought that was the satellite feed,” Tony remarked, going to the refrigerator and grabbing a cold bottle of water.

“I was there, Tony, on the ground with them. The grey thing was four times his size. And Hulk was really angry, his roar vibrating the air around us. And suddenly, he was madder, fiercer, and more powerful. I didn’t know he could do that.”

“Me, neither. Wonder if Bruce does?”

Steve shook his head. “No wonder he looks so thin. He said that for every hour the Hulk is active, he can lose around five pounds or more.”

Tony’s gaze was dark and very worried as it swung towards him. “In less than a week, Bruce would cease to exist. Unless there’s a cut-off, and he returns to being Banner before that happens.”

“And if he doesn’t? Does Bruce disappear completely? Can he, given that he is the body that houses the Hulk?”

“Can’t answer that. Yet,” Tony said, his expression one of deep thought, of a mind working at a speed Steve was certain his enhanced metabolism couldn’t catch. “There would have to be some sort of safety. But, considering that the Banner/Hulk synergy shouldn’t even exist, all laws of science regarding them have to be taken as fluid.”

Steve smiled. “And you hate that, don’t you?”

“You have no idea,” Tony admitted, returning to here and now from whatever intelligence gathering mission his brain had been on. “So, he’s been good otherwise? Outside of being the incredible shrinking man?”

“As far as I can tell. He’s sleeping, he’s eating, he’s working. Whether it’s all a ploy to get us off our guard is anyone’s guess.”

“You think he’s still suicidal.”

“I think dealing with the issues Bruce has, you’d have to be crazy not to be.”

“Well, that’s cheerful.”

“Seriously, Tony.” Steve leaned against the sink, his arms against his chest. “Knowing he can’t get out of what he considers to be a nightmare — that’s dark, dark stuff.”

“I know. It’ll take time to turn his world around.” Dark coffee eyes looked into his. “I don’t want to lose him, Steve. We have to be there for Bruce.”

“I’m not backing out, Tony,” he said sharply. “But I think we both need to understand that this is for the long haul; there won’t be any miracle cure.”

“For him or for you,” Tony agreed.

Steve turned away, focusing on loading the dishwasher. “This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You hide it better than he does, but you’re going through a grief process so intense I can’t even imagine the complexity of it.”

Steve bit his lip. “I’m not saying I don’t have problems, Tony. You do, too. You drink like a fish.”

“And you’re an insomniac who beats up punching bags,” he retorted sharply.

“I’m not belittling you, damn it!” He moved a little closer to Stark. “The point is, we’re dealing with our situations. Bruce has gone past that; he’s desperate for it to end. I still don’t know how we’re supposed to make his life worth living.”

“By dragging him, kicking and screaming into it. Reminding him what’s good, what’s worthwhile . . . the beauty of it.” Tony met his eyes. “And yes, we all have our issues. I drink too much. You go into periods where you’re emotionally isolated from all of us. Clint and Natasha disappear at a moment’s notice to Outer Mongolia, for all we know. Thor is rarely around, and when he is, you can see that he’s still worrying over his bat-shit-crazy not-blood-but-adopted-brother-and-probable lover. Coulson’s the most stable of all of us, and considering he’s recuperating from dying, that’s more worrying than anything else we’ve said tonight.”

Steve had to smile at Tony’s descriptions. “Emotionally isolated?” he repeated. “Pepper had to have said that. It wouldn’t occur to you.”

“Shut up, you. I still haven’t gotten over the Einstein thing.” Tony leaned against the dining table. “My drinking bothers you, huh?”

“What was your first clue?” Steve asked softly. “Wasn’t it the drink that changed Howard?”

Tony’s expression went flat and distant. “He drank. He had less of a discerning palate for scotches than I do, but he had truly awe-inspiring tolerance.”

“Does it help? I mean, I haven’t gotten drunk since Bucky and I got completely plastered before he went in for basic training, but all I remember was the _headache_.”

Tony laughed at Steve’s pained grimace. “I don’t get hung-over anymore. At least, not usually. After a three or four day bender . . . yes. But not normally.”

“Your normal would put most people down, Tony,” Steve insisted. “You’re marinating your liver, Bruce says.”

Stark’s eyes flicked over to him, suddenly intense. “You want me to stop?”

“Yes. But realistically, I’d appreciate it if you just slowed down.”

“What do I get out of it?”

 _Life_ , Steve wanted to say. “What do you want?”

He hesitated, then murmured, “Don’t know yet. But when I do, I’ll let you know. Until then, you can owe me.”

“You won’t cheat?” Steve asked, doubting Tony’s word on this particular subject. “And don’t you need help to get off the booze?”

“No and no, thank you very much for your faith.”

“I have faith in God. For you, I have a great deal of trust and confidence,” he said, his voice intense, a knot in his chest leaving him breathless. “Don’t make me doubt it.”

Leaving Tony there, he went to his room to change clothes then went to Bruce’s room to lay out on the couch and sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcoholics Anonymous isn't for men like Tony Stark.

Tony Stark was a lot of things he would admit to.

An inventive engineering genius, one who could learn anything he set his mind to — like thermonuclear astrophysics. _Overnight._

A playboy of biblical proportions. If it walked and talked, he would fuck it.

A charismatic billionaire who had made most of his money by manufacturing munitions. And when he had stopped that, turned to green energy and made even more money on a daily basis than the GNP of most nations on Earth.

A guy with shrapnel buried inches from his heart, the razor sharp pieces being prevented from killing him by a self-engineered magnet, powered by one of the rarest and most powerful elements in the known universe.

A man who liked to fly around in a gold and titanium-alloy suit, punching bad guys, destroying things, making even more enemies, and thereby, risking all of the above.

He didn’t want “liar” added to the list, especially not by Steve Rogers, a guy he kind of had to admit he really admired. And thought was hot. Lickable. Chewable. And that was just his chin.

But Stark knew he wasn’t the most introspective man on the planet, either. He didn’t tend to look in the closets of his mind too often. Housed there were skeletons that rattled and screamed, pointed bony fingers at him, screeched hate and abuse. When they escaped, often due to someone like Pepper or Rhodey poking at his _feelings_ , the drinking could lasted for days.

He knew who he was deep down. And that wasn’t a particularly nice person. He was selfish, demanding, impatient, arrogant, demeaning, careless, intolerant, suspicious, paranoid, fearful, lustful. . . . And those were his good days. The booze kept the meaner parts of his psyche sedated, took just enough of the edge off that he was tolerable to be near. He’d stopped the drugs years ago; all they did was to take the control of his mouth out of his hands, and that wasn’t good for anybody. Obie had gotten them for him; just the memory of that had been sufficient to keep Tony away from any meds, even the good ones, for a very long time. He barely tolerated aspirin these days.

The alcohol made him human. It calmed his head down enough so that he could function, it made it possible for him to sleep without remembering the horrific dreams that his body told him he had had when he woke; the aches, the tense muscles, the sore throat from crying out, the tears on his cheeks, and the sweat on his clothes. He worked hard so he would collapse and not remember the dreams, because really, who wanted to remember being tortured? Being murdered by the man he’d thought of as a father-figure? Pepper walking away because she just couldn’t take his shit anymore? Slowly suffocating in a lonely, airless, exploding universe?

But Steve had asked him to slow down.

Tony wasn’t a relative kind of guy; numbers made sense to him. It was either zero or one. So, the alcohol level would probably need to go to zero.

And he didn’t know if he could do that.

Or if he really wanted to.

It was one thing to have a man-crush on the most amazing guy this side of Asgard, and another completely to be willing to change what amounted to his entire mind-set in order to please him.

_Was Steve’s good opinion worth that much?_

Tony sat in his lab, idly sorting recent results of metals applicable to the flying car. Reed Richards of _The Fantastic Four_ had made one that looked a lot like the top end of a bus, with little style, and all efficiency. Tony had hated the _Fantasticar_ on sight, almost as much as he loathed Reed. The guy was brilliant, yeah, but all his taste was in his mouth. Well, almost. His wife was hot, hot, _hot,_ and totally wasted on that dweeb. Even worse, Steve’s mouth had fallen open when he’d seen Richards’ car, and Tony had become enraged, jealous, and finally, irrational at his response. Fortunately, Rogers was a class-act; he’d shown up with Stark and he left with him, and said nothing more about Reed or his car. Thank God. Tony thought he might have thrown the most monumental of hissy fits if he had.

So, Steve mattered.

Steve mattered a-whole-helluva-lot.

This thing with Bruce had only heightened his infatuation with Steve Rogers. Not Cap. _Steve._ The twenty-something Brooklyn boy who had saved the world, not once, not twice, but too many times now to accurately count. The shy, bashful, artistic, gentle, sweet, generous, caring epitome of the best traits to be found in humanity — that guy — had wound Tony Stark up so fiercely sometimes he couldn’t even look at him. He wanted to crawl inside his skin some days, just to find out what it felt like. It hadn’t taken long after the Chitauri invasion for Tony to realize that his father had been right (and oh, how _that_ burned). And all the words that had been written about the soldier didn’t come close to who he really was.

And be damned if Tony didn’t want to live up to being his friend. He told himself he was just being selfish, and he could handle it that way. Taking care of Bruce was the same; he needed Bruce, needed the wit that could puncture his own inflated sense of ego with a razor-edged pin, and remind him that Bruce liked him even as dark and emotionally crippled as he was.

None of them were actually psychologically well-wrapped; he thought it was part-and-parcel of the whole hero _schtick_. Otherwise, why would anyone want to fight aliens, monsters, gods, or robots, evil agencies and scientific accidents, which could conceivably lead to real and painful death?

No. None of them were candidates for mental health calendars.

Given that, he considered his next steps.

Realistically, he considered his next steps.

“Jarvis?”

“Sir?”

“I want you to clear your throat every time I reach for a drink before 5 p.m. Ring my phone if I’m not in the tower.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

Tony glanced down at the glass of amber liquor instead of the water bottle that had been in his hand just minutes ago. He wasn’t consciously aware of having poured it.

He stared at it for a long time, words like alcoholism, vine addict, dry drunk and others running through his mind. He wasn’t unaware of his behaviors, for the most part. But not remembering pouring a drink . . . that wasn’t cool.

He consciously picked up the water bottle and walked out, going to his bedroom and changing into a pair of sleep pants and tee shirt before making his way to Bruce’s floor.

Bruce’s apartment was pitch-dark, except for a light coming from the half-open bathroom door. Steve’s adorably sleep-mussed head popped up from the couch, smiled softly at him, and flopped back down with a satisfied sigh.

Tony placed the water bottle next to the side of the bed closest to Steve, and tucked himself in. Bruce was sleeping soundly, probably exhausted by today’s battle. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, willing his mind to slow down, to cut off the endless, _endless,_ inventing and creation. It took a while, a kind of meditation that he’d taught himself at a very young age helping. He went through the people most important to him in order, and made sure he knew where they were, and that they were safe.

 _Pepper/Happy_ – in Washington at the Hays-Adams House. They talked every day, every morning, and usually after dinner some time.

 _Rhodey_ – Andrews AFB. Call him tomorrow. _Wonder how his date went with that model last week?_

 _Jarvis_ – “How’re you doing, J? Any problems?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb the others.

“I am at nominal capacity, sir. DUM-E, however, requires a new motor and capacitor, as his projecting arm is non-functional. The others are at . . . capacity.”

Their capacity or lack thereof, was a standing sore spot with Jarvis. “Remind me tomorrow. Shutting down for the night, pal.”

“I will continue to monitor Dr. Banner. Good night, sir.”

“Night, J.”

 _Steve_ – When had he gotten so high on the list? Asleep, not five feet away. Seemed okay today. Didn’t get squashed by the grey monster; alive and uninjured, always a plus.

 _Bruce_ – Asleep. Tony could feel the heat of his body to his left and inched his arm that much closer. Interesting factoid about the Hulk’s anger equalling more strength. Metabolic requirements on Bruce’s body fascinating, too—

 _Stop that, Tony_ , he admonished himself. _Sleep._

He went down the list of the Avengers and Coulson, and then he was asleep, everyone he loved and liked accounted for.

If his dreams consisted of walking hand-in-hand through the meandering paths of Central Park with a certain blue-eyed blond of the male variety, he didn’t argue about it, or try to wake up. It always morphed into another dream just before they kissed, anyway. . . .

  

The scream that reverberated in the still air of Bruce’s bedroom left Tony frozen in terror for just a moment, and then he jumped out of bed and looked wildly about. Bruce sat up. “What the hell was that?” he asked. “Jarvis?”

“Captain Rogers is having a nightmare,” the cool, calm tones of the AI informed them.

“Lights,” Tony snapped, and a warm glow began to emanate from the embedded light fixtures in the walls. Bruce got out of bed and came around to him, both of them looking at Steve.

The soldier was on his back on the couch, the mint-green sheet trapping his legs. He was wet with sweat, and he kept jerking his head from right to left in an avoiding motion, whimpering softly. The tearing sound of the sheet being ripped in two by the easy power of Steve’s legs made Tony step closer, but he didn’t know what to do at first. Steve could snap him in half if he were suddenly woken, reflexes honed in wartime probably unable to differentiate friendly incursions.

He moved to Steve’s head, knelt down, and began talking in his ear, his left hand rubbing Steve’s head through his hair. “Easy there, Steve. It’s just a bad dream. You’re safe, in the Tower, with Bruce, with me. We’re here.”

“He was tossed in the bay today,” Bruce told him, nibbling on a finger in a visible indication of nerves. “Ocean water. Not cold, but close enough to remind him. Probably a night terror.”

“Oh, crap,” Tony muttered, pinching two fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Steve,” he said a little louder. The other man was still struggling but it was less intense, slower.

“Oh, God, the way he’s gasping . . . I think he’s reliving the drowning, Tony. You have to wake him _up_.”

Stark blew out a breath. “Don’t break me, Steve,” he asked, placing one hand on Rogers’ racing chest, leaving the other in his hair, and rubbing his beard against Steve’s temple. “Come on, man. I’m right here.”

An airless cry puckered Steve’s lips as his head thrust back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck cording as he fought for air his memory told him he wouldn’t find.

“Don’t just stand there, Banner — do something!”

“Jarvis, play Reveille”, Bruce told the AI, and in seconds the sharp, clear sounds of a horn were soaring through the apartment. Steve jerked and his eyes opened, chest heaving for air as he choked and coughed. He looked wildly around, grabbing the hand that Tony had on his chest and desperately clutching it.

“That’s enough, Jarvis,” Bruce said, slumping against the side of the couch in obvious relief, and blowing air out his mouth. The music cut off and the room descended into silence broken only by Steve’s gasps and the thud of Tony’s blood in his ears.

Steve squeezed Tony’s hand in thanks, released him and gave him the tiniest smile, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the couch. He was visibly trembling; Bruce went to his bed, pulled off the blanket and slipped it over Rogers’ shoulders.

“Thanks,” he rasped out. Tony knelt by Steve’s side, watching him, palm resting on his thigh, needing to know he was okay. Bruce stepped away for a few minutes and when he returned, he held a cup with steam coming out of it.

“Here. Camomile. It’ll help.”

Steve took the cup and nodded his appreciation, but Tony nudged it to his lips to get him to drink it.

After ten minutes the shivering stopped, but Steve still held onto the blanket, clutching the warm cup in one big hand. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Tony and Bruce said nothing, just watching him.

“It doesn’t happen often,” he said, his voice tight and low. “Anymore.” He shrugged broad shoulders. “When I first woke up, I had it every night.”

Bruce hissed in companionable empathy. Tony had known dreams that he would cheerfully have killed himself before reliving; he had an idea of what Rogers had gone through.

“For about a week I was seriously thinking they should have left me in the ice.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “But they happened less and less, and I started to believe I’d adjust somehow.” He sipped the tea and that seemed to loosen his tense neck muscles some. “I can’t condition myself not to feel the pain of the people I lost. That hurts and I think it always will. It’s like my entire world _died_ and this one looks like it, sounds like it sometimes — but it isn’t home.”

The scientists gazed at one another, nodding, but saying nothing. Nonetheless, their eyes communicated their new, silent, horrific, awful understanding of Rogers’ pain.

“I’ll see something different about the city, hear music they would have liked, or read an article and I want to tell them, to share it — with Bucky mostly, or Peggy, Howard, even Colonel Phillips or Dum Dum. And then I remember: Oh, they’re _dead_.” He swallowed hard, still not meeting their eyes. He gave a wry smile. “You know, Fury wasn’t so off-base when he tried to trick me into thinking I was still in the 40’s. For the longest time I wasn’t sure I could even survive it, all the changes, the way everybody stared like I was the newest animal in their zoo. 24/7 they watched, until I started to come apart from the awareness of it.”

Tony let out a low, lush curse.

“It’s okay, Tony,” he murmured. “SHIELD let me go then, let me have my own apartment. I could still feel the eyes from the little cameras they’d hidden until I found and crushed each one. Finally, they just stopped replacing them.”

“Fuck Fury,” Tony snapped, his heart aching for Steve’s pain. “He can’t have you back. Ever.”

Steve dropped his hand to Tony’s. “It’s better now, Tony. Really.”

Their eyes met and Stark feared that Steve Rogers could read every secret he’d ever held in his gaze. “I’d do anything to make it better, Steve. You know I would.”

“I know.” The normally vivid blue eyes were bruised and tired, but much calmer. “The water today — I panicked, swallowed some. Reminded me too much, I guess.”

The silence was broken by Banner. Bruce let his hand hang in front of Steve. “Come on. There’s too much room in my bed with only Tony there for company. And he’s being so good that the only contact I get from him is an elbow or his damned cold feet.”

“You don’t like being touched,” Tony grumbled.

“That’s not true,” Bruce mock-argued, as together, they pulled Steve up off of the couch, “I’m just picky about who does the touching.”

“Oh, sure, make me feel better.”

Steve gave them a small smile. “I need a shower, guys. Be out in a few minutes.”

They let him go, watching as he walked slightly unsteadily the fifteen steps to the bathroom and the door shut behind him. Neither spoke until the water was turned on.

“I think that’s most I’ve ever heard Steve say about . . . anything,” Bruce admitted, sitting on the edge of his bed. His big hands picked at the blanket, idly smoothing it, obviously soothing himself at the same time.

“Anything important to him, at least.” Tony could still smell Rogers’ terror in the air. He smacked a fist into his palm with a thud. “He doesn’t make it easy to get inside.”

“And you do?” Banner countered softly.

Tony shook his head. “No. But _I’m_ certifiable.”

Bruce gave him a patient, but considering, glance.

“Really; I have the certificate. Ask Natasha. Borderline personality disorder, narcissistic tendencies, doesn’t play well with others. I wasn’t even slated to be a member of the Avengers when it was still in the theoretical stage.”

“Don’t change the subject, Anthony,” Banner insisted, crossing his arms against his chest, and one leg over the other.

 _Classic defensive posture,_ Tony noted. “Ooh, it’s sexy when you say it,” he lisped.

Bruce flushed adorably, but his smile didn’t waver. “We were discussing you and Steve’s inability to let people in.”

“I could throw that one back at you, Banner—”

“Don’t bother. Tonight isn’t about me.”

Tony bit his lip and glanced towards the bathroom. “He hurts a lot worse than he lets on.”

Banner sighed. “Agreed. I have a question though: If you both are looking out for me, doesn’t that mean I get to do the same for you?”

Stark gnawed his lower lip for a moment or two. “I suppose. Steve could use a sounding board.”

“And you? Could you use a sounding board, Tony?”

The way Bruce said it was a quiet whisper, but his tone was intense and focused. Sherry eyes stared out at Tony from a shock of shaggy hair, and Banner didn’t seem to be breathing.

“No,” Tony replied softly, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest. “I already have you for that.”

The tension between them faded as Banner smiled shyly. “Oh. Well, that’s good then.”

Steve’s entrance split them apart. The towel draped around his waist left sufficient skin available for both men to initially stare, covertly admire, and then look away. “Bruce? Can I borrow a pair of shorts?”

“Sure,” Banner agreed, and went to the dresser to hand his friend the briefs. “Can always sell them on the Internet later.”

Tony chuckled while Steve blushed.

“Thanks.” The soldier did his level best to slip them on without showing any more flesh, but the towel slipped just as they were sliding over his ass. Tony bit his tongue to keep from making some sort of sound that would enlighten Steve as to his opinion of that fine real estate of his, and looked at Bruce, who had to turn away before he laughed at his expression.

_Wow. I mean, Holy Freaking Hell. Needs to be bronzed. Or carved in marble. Or stroked. Split. Rimmed. Fucked. Often._

_Crap. My brain’s stuttering. I hate when that happens._

Looking between the two of them, not quite understanding the current atmosphere, Steve said, “Maybe I should just go back to my room.”

“No, no, stay,” Tony urged, coming forward and grasping a very naked arm gingerly, before leading him to the bed. “Bruce will just complain louder that I’m rebuffing him and that he’s being touch-deprived.”

With Steve in the middle, taking up a remarkable amount of space with just his shoulders, Tony turned on his side, noting that Bruce had done the same. Both of them were faced towards Steve, looking over his stunning, muscled chest at each other and trying very hard not to laugh at the utter absurdity of their lives.

_OMG, I’m in bed with Captain America. Are angels singing somewhere? They should be._

Bruce shook his head at the expression on Tony’s face, which he knew had to be a mix of shock, intense lust, and humor. But mostly lust. Steve was so warm, his skin soft and supple over a network of muscles that made Michelangelo’s _David_ pale in comparison.

Either unaware of their admiration or preferring to ignore it, Rogers said nothing more. He slammed his head back against the pillow a few times, as if urging his mind to focus on something other than a nightmare. Tony started to hum softly, a tune by those hard-core sisters of rock, the Wilsons, and Steve stopped moving. His breathing settled to match Bruce’s, who was plastered against Rogers and consciously monitoring his state, guiding him to rest by a touch on his forearm every time their respirations matched.

Obviously, Steve liked that and slid into dreamless exhaustion minutes later. Bruce laid his left hand on Steve’s arm and shook off his own tension before he let himself rest.

Slowly, Tony followed them into slumber, head resting against Rogers’ shoulder, one arm falling gently over Steve’s waist, and onto Bruce’s hand.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Steve does what he can to assist in the rebuilding of the city after the battles, it raises questions about who he wants to be: superhero, yes, but what else?

As they had every day since he was reborn, Steve’s eyes shot open at six a.m. He wasn’tsurprised to feel bodies around him — in the army during missions, dogpiles on whatever horizontal surface was available and warm was the norm, especially among the Howlers. Since he was usually radiating surplus heat from his enhanced metabolism, he always found somebody on, around, or near him while he slept, depending on how well he knew the guy. Bucky had staked out his right side early in their army days and defended it against all comers, usually with humorous or ribald commentary. He’d smacked a few who were either not the Howlers or had ulterior motives for getting close to him and once that had gotten around, it was rare that a guy hit on Steve. Still, it had been known to happen.

But the man on his right, curly dark head under his arm, face tucked against his ribs, equally hidden by body and blanket, was sadly not Bucky. Steve ignored his disappointed heart with what felt like too-long practice. He’d loved Bucky like a brother, best-friend, and protector all in one man. Even when they’d been kids, when Steve had slept over, he would sneak into bed with Buck and his brother to get warm, his thin limbs and poor health combining to make him an icicle once the cold weather stormed into the Northeast. He wore layers upon layers of others’ cast-offs, which made him look bigger than he was, but his hands, the thin, narrow artists hands, always gave him away as the runt of the litter.

Right now, though, he was _hot_. Boiling. Ready to combust.

He could feel the light buzz of Tony’s arc reactor against his arm, but it didn’t radiate any great warmth.

Bruce was on his left, turned away from him, tucked into the smallest space imaginable for a man of his size but clutching Steve’s arm over his shoulder, his head using his biceps as a pillow. He was softly snoring, his eyelids gently fluttering over whatever dream his brain was unwrapping for him.

Quietly, cautiously, Steve extracted himself, freezing every time one of them gave a muttered complaint at the loss of his body. He turned to look at them when he’d finally escaped, smiling with real affection at the two men who had been there for him last night. The way Buck would’ve been. Bruce had curled himself around a pillow, while Tony hadn’t moved an inch from where his face had been plastered into Steve’s side.

Silently, he left Bruce’s apartment and went down to his own. He hoped he didn’t meet anybody; he was only wearing the pair of Bruce’s boxers — which were tight in all the wrong places.

Gratefully, he slipped into his own space without being seen, and put on briefs, running pants, an army tee shirt, socks, sneakers, sunglasses, and an antique _Brooklyn Dodgers_ ball cap that Phil had scrounged from somewhere. He left the Tower and was on the street minutes later, jogging in place outside, not sure where he wanted to go yet. Deciding that a run to the ferry landing would be a fun, he headed downtown along Park Avenue figuring that would be the least busy. After a few miles he’d gotten the kinks out and put some speed into it. Faces, cars, miles flew by, and he let his mind go, to relax and just focus on his breathing, the slap of his feet on the pavement, the gleam of the sun on his head, in his eyes, and the sounds of his city. He loved New York, always had. In his time, after he and Bucky had learned every corner of Brooklyn, they’d turned to Manhattan. They found all the places they could get a cheap sandwich and a beer underage, where the hot women were, the best tunes, where the gangs lived, memorized the alleys of Alphabet City and Hell’s Kitchen to Harlem. They scrounged for work, for food, anything they could get their hands on in the desperate times of the Depression, where a pair of shoes or gloves could make a difference between cold and frostbite, or a place in a soup kitchen line divided the living from the dying on any particular day.

He wandered around Battery Park when he got there, walking through the new Ferry terminal, the skyscrapers, the war memorials in between the hucksters setting up their wares for the tourists: I © New York tee shirts, paintings of various buildings like the Flatiron or Woolworth, Empire State or Chrysler, museums and the parks, (some of which were pretty good, he thought). There were bagel and coffee vendors all around, and the police in their dark blue uniforms, idly watching everything and everyone with a jaded weariness that tore at Steve’s heart.

As he started his run back, he noted the workmen who were restoring so many of the buildings that had been damaged, or creating new ones to take the place of those utterly destroyed by the Chitauri’s attack. Almost every day he joined a crew to help, and while the more skilled jobs were beyond him, he could wield a hammer, put up sheet rock, or drop a floor or carpet with the best of them. No one noticed; no one cared that there was a new guy on-site once he pitched in. They had work to do and had jobs because of it; no one would look too far to find out who he was when they had work of their own to do.

He liked the anonymity. No one knew or cared who he was—

 _All right. Enough,_ Cap’s voice interrupted. _You woke up in the middle of a man-sandwich. Tony Stark was wrapped around you, a scene which even you have to admit is pretty sensual. Can we focus?_

Steve nearly tripped over an uneven edge of pavement. _So? Not like I . . . y’know, did anything with them._

_But you wouldn’t mind if you did. And don’t you think it’s past time we got some action? The chorus girls were a long time ago._

Rogers turned pink; he hoped people thought it was from running.He sped up.Steve ignored the voice and it soon drifted away.

Unfortunately the subject didn’t go away with it.

Steve wasn’t the kind of guy who had ever cared about labels. He’d been called so many names when he was young that he’d taught himself to completely ignore them. To some of the kids, his being small meant he was batting for the other team and they gave him hell over it. Over time, most of them learned that he liked girls, especially some of the nicer ones in school, but they wouldn’t pass the time of day with him. He hadn’t been kidding with Peggy that his conversations with her had been the longest ones he’d ever had with a girl.

And yeah, he knew that Cap’s voice was merely him talking to himself. It didn’t take a brain the size of Banner’s to figure that out. He didn’t always know why it picked a certain time or place; the docs said it was his subconscious trying to communicate certain things with him that he didn’t want to look at.

Like his attraction to Anthony Stark. He slowed down as he got closer to the Tower; more people here would possibly recognize him, and the early risers were already on their way to work. He walked through the lobby, ignoring the employees who gaped at him and moved towards the Avengers’ elevator. One of the guards stopped him; he looked at him and smiled, removing the ball cap and the sunglasses. “Steve Rogers,” he told the guard and began to move past him.

The guy, who Steve hadn’t met before, obviously didn’t recognize him, because he stepped in his way and put his hand on his chest. “Right. Like Captain America goes jogging.”

Steve still smiled. “Actually, I run for fun.”

The other guard, Bert Lawson, supervisor of the Tower’s security, moved closer and laughed, pushing the M-4 he was carrying down and away. “I’d take that hand back, Chuck, or Cap here will put it where the sun don’t shine.”

The younger guy stared at him for a long moment. “Holy crap! Sorry about that, man. I thought you were older.”

“Not a problem,” Steve told him, slapping Bert on the shoulder. The huge man didn’t move under the shot. “Trying to get the new guy hurt?”

“Nah. We had a papparazzo who was claiming to be Agent Barton try to slip past a few hours ago.”

“A — who? What would that be?”

Bert didn’t laugh and Steve appreciated it. The security chief patiently explained the bane of royalty and celebrities everywhere and outlined some of their tactics. “The boss knows more about them than anyone. He’s been followed by reporters and photographers his entire life and has more ink in print and on the ‘net than anybody but the president.”

Steve shook his head. “Not something I’d be interested in.”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark made that plain. No pictures of you guys unless you’re at an event. And, definitely, nobody but you in the upper Tower.”

Saying goodbye, Steve got into the elevator and using the card key, punched the glowing digit for his floor, colored in increments of vivid red, white and blue. “Jarvis?”

“Captain Rogers?”

“What would you do if someone other than the Avengers got into this elevator?”

“That depends, Captain. Do you mean an unwelcome or uninvited person?”

“Yeah. Like a reporter.”

“The biosensors would attempt fingerprint confirmation the moment they pushed a floor indicator. Once it defines the individual as “intruder” an alarm would sound in the security office. The elevator doors would open and not close again until the elevator sensors indicated it was empty. If the intruder attempted to put a tool to the control panel, an electric shock would prevent their re-attempting the maneuver. I watch when the lift is in use, sir, so that no one but yourselves, Ms. Potts, Agent Coulson and Agent Sitwell may enter the upper levels. That includes the service companies, but they enter by a different lift, have been intensely vetted, bonded, and well paid. Sir finds that a sufficient salary prevents most staff intrigues.”

“Can anyone reach the upper floors from the other elevators, like the staff ones?”

“Only this dedicated elevator and the service lift are capable of reaching the upper levels. May I ask, Captain, are you concerned about the building’s security?”

Steve shrugged. “Not really, Jarvis. Just like to know what strategies are in place.”

“I will advise Sir that you have an interest, Captain Rogers.”

“Thanks.” Reminding himself again that one didn’t thank a computer, he shrugged, and entered his apartment to shower. It was 8:30 when he ran down the five flights to the communal floor and the kitchen. It was empty, but soon his teammates would be around to fill it. Steve set to making breakfast: four scrambled eggs, three pieces of toast with butter, half a rasher of bacon, fresh-squeezed OJ, coffee out of a French press, and fresh fruit.

Bruce ambled in just as Steve was cutting up the fruit and leaned over his shoulder, looking thoughtful. “Want some?” he asked.

“Hmm, is all that for you?”

He flushed lightly. “I seem to need to eat a lot or I get kinda weak.”

Bruce chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. “Can’t have a weak Captain America. Some of the fruit would be great. And toast, if you don’t mind.” He reached into the ice box for the yogurt he ate every day and moved to the table, while Steve put on the tea pot for hot water for the steel-cut oats Banner liked.

Turning to give Bruce the fruit, he returned to find that his breakfast had disappeared. He sighed. “Clint, I don’t mind making more for you.”

The archer was perched on the top of the bookshelves in the center of the TV room, busily devouring Steve’s food. “Nah, Steve, this is good,” he replied with a sunny smile. “You can cook.”

Steve shrugged, flushing lightly. “Not like a chef or anything.”

Natasha leaned against him, the soft curves of her breast pressing against his arm. “Don’t be shy, handsome. Every girl wants a man who can cook,” she teased. “Is there a hard-boiled egg in there for me, too?” She gave him a sweet smile and he had to laugh.

“I’ll make sure there is. Any other orders while I’m here?”

They all added items thick and fast and then Thor ambled in. “I smell a feast. Why was I not invited?”

“It’s not a feast,” Jane said, following him with a yawn, and a ti-ny nightdress. Steve looked away and swallowed sharply. “It’s just breakfast.”

This was the third day in a row that Steve’s breakfast had turned into everyone else’s. He nodded and gave in with good grace, prepared to cook for his team if it made them happy. It was pleasant watching them all talking and making plans for the day.

Tony slipped in quietly, apparently noticed all the food and talk, and sidled up to Steve at the sink, leaning against him as they reached for coffee at the same time. Steve rescued the pot, and safely put the cup in his hand.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly.

“Just breakfast,” Steve told him. “I think they like my cooking.”

Tony raised tired, slightly reddened dark eyes up to his. “Oh my god, tell me you cook too. You’re too good to be true,” he mumbled into his coffee. “Einstein, now this.” The engineer blew out a beleaguered sigh.

“What about Einstein?” Bruce asked, joining them by the stove.

Tony jerked a thumb at Steve. “He met Einstein.”

“Actually, I had dinner with him—”

“You’re just making it worse,” Tony warned, planting his face in his palm, as Bruce glared at him.

“Einstein? EINSTEIN? And you didn’t care to mention it?” Bruce all but yelled. His hand shot out and grabbed Steve’s arm. “Well, you can just sit down here and tell me all about it. What he said, what he looked like, what he ate . . . did he play his violin? Did his socks match? Was his hair all wild? Who else was there? What did he say?”

He could hear Tony snickering behind him as Steve was dragged away to the couch. He was going to have a bruise there later; Banner didn’t always know his own strength, as the group was learning.

It took almost an hour for him to relay everything Bruce wanted to know, and he had the feeling that the other man would be coming back against to see if there were any sentences he might have forgotten the physicist had said. He found Tony in his lab, munching on toast as he gazed intently at his screens. “Jarvis, that can’t be right. Re-evaluate the energy expenditure, using the bridge fight as a basis.” He turned to Steve. “What’s up, Soldier Boy? You know, Bruce’s energy consumption is off the charts. I mean, completely impossible by all comparison with human requirements. It’s like anything he eats he breaks the complex carbs into glucose like we all do, but his storage capability is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. It can’t happen. But it is.” Stark ran a hand through his hair, adding butter to the waves. Steve grabbed a clean rag and wiped it off, Tony barely even noticing. “What? Oh, thanks.”

Steve lifted his arm and pushed back his sleeve. “He expends more than we think.”

Tony did a double-take as he gazed at Steve’s black and purple forearm. “Wow. This from the Einstein talk this morning?”

“Yes, and thank you for that,” he replied sourly. “That’s an hour I’ll never get back.”

Tony chuckled and waved a hand in apology. “Sorry. I really do feel bad. Should’ve realized a physicist would get a little excited about the man who figured out relativity and argued quantum theory and geometrisation. Didn’t think he’d hurt you over it though.”

“Doesn’t hurt now. My point is—”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s using more power than we think he is. Gotcha.” He turned back to his screens. “Jarvis, what you got?”

A number flashed across the screens. A large number, but that was all Steve saw.

Stark blinked. He looked down and examined his feet for a long while. Fascinated by the intense mental work he could tell Tony was doing, expecting steam to come out of his ears any minute, Steve remained where he was. Stark snarled like Colonel Phillips when his mental analyses were disturbed.

Finally, he asked, “Jarvis, are you corrupted?” His voice was plaintive.

“I completed the monthly self-check this past week, sir. I am in prime operating condition. The figures you see before you are accurate, given the energy required for Dr. Banner to change form, then fight, and return to his normal shape.”

“But a human being can’t. . . . Nobody could absorb sufficient calories or nutrients—” Tony tore at his hair. “Bruce has to explain this because I can’t.” Steve followed as Stark left his glassed-in lab and went through a connecting door to Bruce’s. He burst in with a grumble. “You, Banner, and your alter-ego are driving me insane.”

Banner calmly finished typing, turned down the heat on a Bunsen burner, and spun around on his chair, then removed his glasses. “What have I done now?”

“J, put the figure on Bruce’s screen down here.”

Bruce stared at it, then him. “What is that?”

“The amount of energy the Other Guy used to take down the grey thing.”

“Ok-ay.”

“Well, see, Bruce, it’s like this: I’m not a biologist, but even I know that a human can’t possibly take in enough calories to equate to using that many kilojoules of power. Mathematically, it doesn’t compute.”

Bruce bit his lip and looked a little shyly at Tony. “Is this kind of like I can’t be 185 pounds, and the other guy be 1,200?”

“YES, damn it! You are messing with the laws of science!”

Bruce squeezed the bridge of his nose, and Steve wondered if he were trying not to laugh. Tony’s histrionics could be funny, though he seemed to be genuinely upset.

Banner’s voice replied in a low tone, going from tenor to baritone. “I’m sorry, Tony. I don’t store energy the way other people do, as glycogen in the liver, to be used as ATP in the mitochondrial complex of every cell. For some reason that I don’t quite understand yet, my body stores a higher form of sugar in a coiled trictogon which contains three hundred times more power than a simple glycogen molecule. Everything I eat is processed and converted to this form. When the gamma radiation stored in each cell explodes when the Other Guy comes out, it transforms the trictogons into hecta-triacontakaidigon, 3000 times more powerful than the singular glycogen molecule.”

“And the more adrenaline you put out—”

“The greater the energy available as the liver releases more of these colossally tight sugars into the bloodstream for cells to use. I don’t know whether it’s a result of my father’s fiddling with my biochemistry, or of mine, but there it is. Even so, as more energy is consumed by the Other Guy, I lose weight. It comes back ridiculously quickly, but I do get tired and weak when I come back.”

Tony scratched his head. “Will you go past red-line?”

“Do you mean, to where I lose too much weight? It’s never happened. From what I understand, he usually wins or leaves the field.”

“What’s the lightest you’ve ever come back?” Steve asked.

Bruce thought about it. “About 100 pounds.”

Grimacing, Stark growled, “That’s your bottom line. That’s 85 pounds and I can’t even begin to tell you how many kilojoules of energy — Jarvis?”

“357,000 joules, Sir or 8,532,300,000 kilocalories.”

“Holy crap!” Stark snapped, his brown eyes wide and shocked. “And that doesn’t factor in the enhancement by the gamma radiation to the. . . .” He whistled, long and loud. He blinked at Bruce. “I knew the Other Guy was strong but he’s off the charts completely. The figures would be so huge they’d become incomprehensible.”

Bruce wrapped his arms around himself, a sure sign he was getting uncomfortable. He didn’t say anything. Steve cleared his throat, which seemed to bring Tony out of his mathematical fog. He looked back at Steve for a moment, who flicked his gaze towards Bruce.

“Big Guy, could you write an equation of the energy requirements for me, so we can figure out what kind of food consumption you would need to keep you juiced?” he asked diffidently. “None of us want you coming back as a stick figure. All right, good science, time to get back to work now. See ya.” He waved a hand and was gone.

Bruce watched Tony’s retreating back for a long moment. “He’s like a hurricane,” Bruce muttered. “A human-sized, big-brained, ever-moving, Starkicane.”

Steve chuckled. “He’s tough to keep up with, that’s for sure. But the idea to know what you need to eat is a good one. If you have something every two to three hours, that should help, right?”

“I’m supposed to stop work every couple of hours to eat? I don’t think so.”

“Then you’d eat if it were finger foods and you didn’t need to stop?”

Banner’s eyes narrowed. “Are you managing me, Steve?”

He nodded, not at all embarrassed. “A little. Part of my job as team leader is making sure you have what you need to do the job. And because Tony’s right; you’d make a lousy stick figure.”

Bruce gave in then with a laugh and a smile. “All right. I think I do pretty well on the food issue, but if you want to try and help, I won’t stop you.”

“Good.” He turned and left with a wave of his own, returning to his room to dress for the day. When he’d first decided to do this, the day after the attack, he’d picked up clothes to work in. He put on his navy blue carpenter’s pants, pulled on a gray tee shirt and a plaid flannel over that to try and hide some of his bulk, tied the laces on black, steel-toed boots, and headed out to do some work with his hands, remembering to drop his ball cap on his head before he slipped out the door.

He’d picked a site on 34th Street that morning. By noon, he was confidently using an acetylene torch to weld rivets in the steel skeleton structure of a new building. It was a warm day and he was wet with sweat, and was forced to tie his shirt around his hips, and work in only his tee. The guys teased him about being a “gym queen,” but he smiled and chuckled, and it soon died off. He was no stranger to being called names. It felt good to work with his hands again. He’d always liked it, building something, repairing things. In that he was like Tony, who couldn’t bear to see something non-functional or not working at the peak of performance. Steve preferred woodwork to steelwork, but this was what needed doing right now, and he was content with that.

Steve and his group were on the 30th floor, getting ready to break for lunch, when he heard a scream. Looking around he saw one of the foremen had slipped off the steel girder and fallen a few floors below, just catching his hands on the edge of a girder. If he fell from that height—

Moving fast, Steve skimmed down the length of his steel girder and deliberately jumped down from one to the next, until he was on the same one as the terrified man. As he landed, the poor guy lost one grip, his hand spasming and refusing to hold him any longer. Steve belly-flopped next to him and grabbed the hand still desperately clutching, seeing the terrified eyes rolling around in the man’s head. Fear had turned to panic and he’d take Steve down with him if he wasn’t careful. Just as he was able to lock his fingers around the guy’s wrist, that hand slipped, and he started to fall. His weight greater, Steve was able to prevent them from falling only by lunging, which left his toes precariously on the edge. They hung there for a long moment, his hard hat sliding off and falling, falling until it made a dull clank against a girder far below.

The man was now gibbering in terror. Steve took a deep breath. Leaving his toes to hold their weight, he moved one leg until it was wrapped around the girder, and then did the same with the other. It was an awkward angle, his crotch tight against the steel while he held the man upside down.

Even his strength wouldn’t last forever. A dozen men had arrived and tried to help by sitting on Steve’s legs, risking their own lives to bring their friend up.

Grimacing, Steve pulled the man towards him until he had the other wrist. The foreman was unconsciousness now, his body limp and unresponsive, becoming even heavier. Gritting his teeth, Steve slid one hand to the guy’s belt and then the other, and began to pull him up again until the man was at his chest level, and then higher, tightening his gut so that he could do a sit up and bring the man with him. Hands caught the foreman and dragged him to safety, while Steve told the men to let go. They looked at him with pale faces and refused. He dropped into what Tony called “his Cap voice” and ordered them to do it. They obeyed and he flipped himself up and onto the girder with no difficulty, landing in a crouch, panting slightly.

The victim was lying in his friends’ arms, still out cold. Steve stood up and assumed control. “He needs to see a doctor.” He pointed to the elevator and without any further discussion the assembled men lifted him and carried him into it. Rogers had his doubts whether the man would ever be able to handle high construction again, and shrugged, brushing his aching hands against his pants.

The senior foreman had arrived by now and looked hard at Steve, thrusting a calloused hand out for him to shake. He smiled. “I don’t know you from Adam, but right now I wouldn’t mind having your child.”

Steve laughed. “Don’t be offended if I don’t take you up on that.” He glanced down and frowned. “I think I need another hard hat.”

“I think I need a drink. I closed the site for the day; everyone’s jumpy now and that causes mistakes. I’m Terry Farrell.”

“Steve Rogers.”

Farrell held onto Steve’s arm as they arrived at the bottom of the building, and herded him down two blocks to a bar that was busy, but quiet. He directed him to a booth and slid in after him. “I’m buying. The rest of the guys will get here soon; most of them will go with Pete to the hospital, just to show support. They’ll go get his wife, too.”

Steve just nodded and glanced over the plastic menu. When the waitress came, Terry ordered for them both, pastrami on rye with mustard, and 2 Buds. They arrived in iced mugs, and while Steve wasn’t a big drinker, it tasted good on a warm day.

He left Terry in a crowd of his workers around 5 that evening, all happily inebriated and relieved that Pete would be okay. When he got into the Tower, he hit the button for his apartment, wanting to go to his room to change, but the elevator stopped on the communal floor instead of his own. “Jarvis?”

“Steve?”

Pepper’s voice was overridden by Tony’s. “Rogers, get your ass in here!”

Thinking something was wrong, Steve raced to the living room, to find Tony, Bruce, and Pepper staring at him with varied levels of annoyance from the large leather couch.

“Are you out of your mind?” Pepper screeched, her eyes snapping as she leapt to her feet and hugged him hard for such a slim woman. “You could have fallen. None of the Avengers were there to catch you. Tony didn’t even know you’d gone out!”

“How did you know—?”

“There are news cameras everywhere, Soldier Boy,” Tony told him. He sipped a glass of scotch, it looked like. “The newsies picked it up and it’s all over the world by now. Depending on what country you’re in, you’re either a hero, or a tool of the capitalist oppressor, but there you go.”

Steve looked to Bruce. He was pale; his arms wrapped tightly around himself, a blanket tucked around him. He seemed oddly fragile.

“Oh, you scared the crap out of him, too. Almost Hulk-ed out,” Tony added.

He sat down on the cocktail table, ignoring the television with its sound off, showing his rescue of Pete. Pepper sat back on the couch. “I’ve been working with construction crews around the city, to help rebuild. This — this was just an accident. Pete fell and I reacted. It’s nothing more than that.”

“You’re so damned humble it makes me ill,” Tony growled, and then leaned forward to poke him in the chest. “We’re a team, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And teams look out for each other, right?”

“Yes, Tony. What are you getting at?”

“Would it kill you to let us know what you’re doing? Does it all have to be a big secret?”

He considered that for a few minutes. “No, I guess not.”

Bruce looked at him, his expression worried. “But you’re not comfortable with it.”

“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t think you’d care what I do in a day.”

Tony threw his arms up in the air in obvious exasperation. “Pepper, you talk to him.”

She frowned and moved closer, until she could tap his knee with her hand. “It’s really simple, Steve. You _scared_ them.”

“It was you who said we were kind of a dysfunctional family, remember?” Bruce asked softly.

He had. At the time Bruce had been ready to jump off the top of the Stark Building. He’d been flailing for anything that would get through to him. “Yes, I do. And we are, I suppose.”

“I know you have trouble . . . letting people in, Steve,” Bruce said, some color coming back into his face. “We all do. But we, I mean Tony and I, we kind of thought we were already in. Only to find, we’re not.”

“That’s not true,” Steve growled. “Not true at all.”

“Talk is cheap, Soldier Boy,” Tony replied. “Some secrets we all have to keep. But this? You’ve probably been doing this for months, since the attack, right?”

Steve nodded.

“Undercover?”

“Yeah. Of course. I wanted to do something to help. I mean, between callouts, I don’t have a job to do, not like you and Bruce, or any of the others. Widow and Hawkeye still take assignments from SHIELD and Thor has Asgard and the Rainbow Bridge to rebuild.” He shrugged. “I won’t be Fury’s tool. I’m not in the army and that’s not me anymore and I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”

“So what _do_ you want to do?” Pepper asked.

“That’s the problem, Pepper. _I don’t know._ I’m trying to learn about the world, to understand all that’s happened. And that should be a full-time job, but I can’t just sit still and read all day. I have to be active or I’ll go stir-crazy.”

The others were silent for a long moment.

“The jig’s up now,” Tony warned. “Any construction site in the city will be on the lookout for a stranger of your description. The reporters will be like ticks.”

Steve sighed. “I just wanted to do something as _me,”_ he said, slapping his hands down on his thighs. “Not Captain America. _Me_.”

“We understand, Steve,” Pepper soothed, her hand sliding on his thigh, squeezing lightly. It felt good and he didn’t protest. “We just don’t know what to do to help yet.”

He let out a breath and tried to relax. He wasn’t under attack anymore.

Bruce came over and sat down next to him, leaning against his shoulder. He felt cold and Steve lifted an arm and held him. Tony slid onto the other side, and he did the same while Steve had a thought for the furniture. Pepper chuckled as if she’d read his mind.

After a few minutes, he felt much better, and the guys seemed to have calmed down, too.

“Okay, let’s make a couple of ground rules here,” Pepper insisted, her eyes happier than when he’d arrived. “Rule One: You either let the guys or Jarvis know where you’re going.”

Steve nodded. It made perfect sense; even though they all had phones, they didn’t work everywhere and . . . it made it seem like somebody actually cared where he’d be.

“Not just you, Steve,” Pepper added, nudging Tony’s knee with her own, and giving Bruce a speaking glance. “Not that Bruce goes all that far, but still.”

“Agreed,” Tony said, with Bruce chiming in a moment later with, “Okay.”

“Rule Two: Any group hugs, I get to be a part of.”

Steve laughed as she sat on his lap and hugged him, running her fingers through his hair. “And if you think you might have done something that needs press control, please let me know. I have an entire department just for this, and they’re getting fat and lazy with Tony behaving so well.” She gave her former lover a grin. “At least, as well as can be expected.”

“Hey,” Tony grumbled, leaning against Steve, his head on his shoulder. “Don’t look a gift horse, blah, blah, blah.”

“All right.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a dinner, and you have some decisions to make. I think Brad Franklin would be best, don’t you, Tony?”

“For a date? Sorry, Pep, but I don’t think he’s batting for your team.”

She thumped his shoulder and then kissed his hair. “For Steve. An interview. He hasn’t given any personal ones yet.”

“And I don’t want to,” Steve added in his business tone, but all Pepper did was smile at him and say, “That’s too bad. I’ll set it up anyway.”

Tony chuckled as she walked away, her heels clicking on the marble flooring. “And I was dating that,” he said _sotto voce._

“Lucky man,” Steve agreed, while Bruce just whistled, soft and low.

In a few minutes both men moved away, but they had made their point. He had value to them beyond Captain America. The last person to feel that way had been Peggy . . . after Bucky was gone. It hurt to be reminded of that. He hadn’t had a lot of people concerned about him, Steve, back then — the Captain was needed too desperately.

It felt good, leaving him with a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach, and pressed a bashful smile to his lips. After Tony and Bruce had wandered off to their labs, he went to his apartment and took a desperately needed shower. He wasn’t hungry; two gigantic sandwiches with Terry and a dozen beers had given him enough carbohydrates until later, at least.

His hands itched for drawing paper and pencils. Having only a few sheets of Tony’s corporate letterhead and a number two pencil, he decided to make do with that. In a few lines, he had sketched out the memory that was stuck in his mind: The vision of Pete’s terrified face as he hung from Steve’s hand, the expression of complete and utter failure to do anything to correct the situation, his mouth making sounds that evaporated in the wind going past them. As he drew, the tension left Steve’s hand. The strokes became smoother, softer, the details easier to interpret from his mind to the paper. An hour later, it was done, and he finally felt released from the man’s terror, as though it had somehow accumulated on his skin and had to be drawn out and put down in order to free it from his flesh.

He considered what to do then. He wasn’t tired, but knew he could sleep. He wasn’t hungry, but could always eat. Yet he didn’t want to do any of those things. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

“Are Tony and Bruce okay? I mean. . . .”

“Their heart rate and respirations have returned to normal. At present, they are working together on a correction to an algorithm required for Dr. Banner’s focus on the expected parameters of the contagion of the annual influenza epidemic beginning in November.”

That sounded intense, Steve thought. He didn’t want to bother them. Finally deciding on a book and some music, he loaded a blend that Jarvis had put together for him and picked up a bio of Winston Churchill. He’d liked the big shouldered, blunt, smooth-talking, genial statesman when he met him and wanted to know more. Opening the first of three volumes he’d bought, he began and was soon involved in the Boer War, riding beside Winston against the Mahdi.

He woke up as Tony slipped soft fingers in his hair. “Ready for bed, Steve?”

Bruce was already tucked up on the left side of his bed, and with a tired smile and heavy-laden eyes, Tony urged him up. He was pushed to the middle, where they seemed to like him, and both men curled in, seeking his warmth. Strangely satisfied, he fell back to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Bruce do when he has the opportunity of a lifetime? And what really is in Tony's green concoction?

On the first of July, New York was having a heat-wave with record high humidity.

Most people would have the sense to stay indoors. Steve, being who he was, wasn’t normal people. He was in the middle of getting Bruce re-acquainted with his city, and that included morning walks. They’d found out fairly early in the experiment that Bruce did not do well when woken at Steve’s usual run time. He was surly, shuffling, and vaguely threatening; in essence, too much like Tony to be an ideal walking partner. So, they pushed it back to accommodate Bruce’s usual eight a.m. fall out of bed.

They spilled onto the sidewalk around ten that Wednesday morning, and started moving crosstown to the West Side, and then back up towards the Public Library. They weren’t in any hurry; the sun was beating down, the sidewalks sweating, even the vendors were looking as wilted as the trees. As a concession to the heat, they wore shorts and hats, with sunglasses to protect their eyes.

“Did it get like this in Kolkata?” Steve asked.

“It can easily get this hot, but never with this high humidity,” Bruce said, thankful Steve had slowed the pace a little.

“What’s it like there?”

Bruce chuckled. “As far from here as possible.”

“Come on. Give me a description.”

“The intensity of the smells is what hits you first. Too many people packed in a too small area; open garbage heaps; people cooking everywhere and anything they can beg, borrow, or kill; and the stench of the water of the river Hooghly.”

They walked past the Chrysler Building and Steve patted her lightly patterned granite side as he went past and looked up. Bruce smiled at him. “You two friends?”

“I just think she’s a beautiful girl, that’s all. Please tell me more.”

“The south part of the city is incredible. Buildings left over from the British Raj, new structures, businesses, parks — it’s lovely. Of course, my part was the northern slums.”

They crossed the street, then started going crosstown to Fifth Avenue.

“The noise is something else. In most metropolitan cities, you hear the hum, the background noise of any modern place with cars, trains, restaurants, you know what I mean. The sheer number of people there, whether they’re walking, talking, whispering, yelling . . . it’s loud. You have to understand, there are about 63,000 people per square mile, so it gets a little crowded.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. “Is that even possible?”

“Sadly, yes. The population density makes it one of the most crowded places in India. And the poverty is unlike anything you could ever imagine.” He sighed, and wiped his face with his hand. “It’s the skinny little dark-eyed kids who run all over the place that break your heart the most. They have no future other than what they see around them. They even divide their slums into authorized and unauthorized. The authorized at least have basic services like water and trash removal, and contain working people who are long term tenants with landowners or Bangladeshi refugees. The unauthorized, of which I was one, are squatters who live on canals, railway lines, and roads. About a third of the entire population lives there.”

“And you were able to help?”

“Let’s put it this way. For every 10,000 people, there are 60 hospital beds. The poor don’t get treated; they get ignored. Lots of infants aren’t vaccinated. There’s a high population of people with AIDS, obesity, thyroid problems, asthma issues, and malnourishment-related anemia, plus the usual endemic diseases: malaria and dengue fever.” He remembered the hands he had held, the dark eyes that had begged for help. . . .

“Wait a minute! Obesity and malnutrition?”

“The street vendors deep-fry everything to make it more palatable. Everything from crepes, to eggs, mutton, eggplant, you name it. And Bengalis love their sweets.”

They were at the library now and Bruce took a break to stare up at the famous granite lions that graced its front. There were usually people sunning themselves on the steps during the summer, but only the most hardy were there today.

“Did you want to go in?”

Bruce sipped from the bottle of water he had brought. “No, that’s probably not a good idea. Libraries and I are like children and chocolate. You can’t tear one from the other without tears.”

Steve laughed at him, and he smiled. Bruce had to admit that as much as he worried about the Other Guy popping out when he was least expected, these walks were turning into time he really enjoyed. “Well, let’s go around the exterior, at least.”

As they turned the corner of 42nd Street, he added, “Your turn.”

Steve chuckled. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s see,” he mused. “Tell me about . . . college?”

Steve shook his head. “I went to a school for fine arts that doesn’t exist anymore. Wanted to be a graphic designer, but that never happened.”

“So you can draw?”

Steve nodded, a little shyly, Bruce thought. “What do you like to draw? In what medium?”

“I can sketch pretty much anything, and prefer pencils.”

“From memory or do you need visual aids?”

“Either is fine.”

“That’s cool. Have you done any recently? I mean, since you woke up?”

“Haven’t bought any materials yet, but I have done a few pieces, from the Battle of New York, and one of poor Pete from last week. I did them on the back of Tony’s fancy stationary — it’s better paper than you’d think.”

“Everything Tony has is better than anyone else’s, have you noticed? The man is a living example of excess. When I first came back from India, it was such a shock to live in the Tower. There was so _much_.”

“I know. Remember I was brought up in the Depression and then the war, so having all of this,” he waved a hand to the surrounding city, “is pretty strange.”

“All right, so go back to art.” He hustled Steve into a nearby _Staples_ store. “While this isn’t _Sam Flax_ or _Pearl_ , we should be able to get you a pad and pencils, at least until you can get there.”

It took but a few minutes to get Steve what he needed to begin, a sketch pad and colored pencils and a few erasers. If the smile on his face was real, he was happy enough just with them.

“So, why drawing?” Bruce asked, when they were on the sidewalk again, returning to the Tower via Madison Avenue.

Steve took a minute to let a bicycle pass him, and then continued walking. “I’ve always liked it, even when I was a kid. I was pretty good at it, too, so I got accepted at the Art Students League, which was off of 57th Street. I was working at a shoe store in Brooklyn then, so after school I would go to work, and then home. I was still at school when I was finally inducted.”

Bruce calculated that. “Steve, how _old_ are you?”

“Let’s see, I was born in ‘18. So I’m about 90.”

“No, no. Let’s try that in number of years you were awake.”

“The last birthday I celebrated I was 25.”

Bruce just stared at him for a long moment. “Tony would flip, you know that, right?”

“Dr. Erskine said that during the process I would age to where I would look about 28 or 29.”

“And then what?”

“He didn’t know.”

Bruce blinked and turned his head. “He didn’t _know_?”

Steve chuckled at him. “It’s not like he’d had an entire army of volunteers, Bruce. There were only a dozen of us and most of us didn’t know what we were in training for. The only other subject was one he hadn’t chosen, Johann Schmidt, and he didn’t turn out so well. While he was brilliant, he was _nuts_. And Erskine didn’t live long after my change.”

“I often wondered. How did you deal with being . . .” he waved a hand in Steve’s direction, “the new you?”

They stepped into a coffee shop, both sighing with relief at the change in temperature. Bruce went to get their drinks, and then sat at the booth Steve had picked, near the window.

“It wasn’t easy; I was used to being short and skinny. I whacked my head on everything for the first few days. I couldn’t get over the size of my hands and feet. They felt like they belonged to somebody else. Though my face was pretty much the same, I had a physique I never could have hoped for. Suddenly, women would watch me as I went past. Their eyes would follow me. Men behaved strangely, like I was someone different. But I wasn’t. It was still me, just in a new body.”

“Did you take up the offers of any of those women?” Bruce teased, astonished when Rogers flushed.

“Well, kind of. Sort of. Then Peggy caught one girl kissing me, and her response was less than enthusiastic.”

“What’d she do?”

“She shot at me.”

Bruce laughed out loud, and then covered his mouth. “With a _gun_?”

“Yeah. I think she was jealous.”

He couldn’t help it. He had to laugh again. “Steve, you’re priceless.”

The other man shrugged, his smile a little sad, and Bruce didn’t press him anymore.

They watched the world go by for a little while before walking the few blocks to the Tower.

 

 

Bruce went to his lab after their walk and rifled through the mail on his desk, yawning a little and cracking his neck.

A brilliantly white envelope stood out from the rest and he pulled it out. The return address was _New York University, Physics Department, Center for Soft Matter Research_ , _Meyer Physics Building, 4 Washington Place, New York, NY 10003_.

Curious, he opened the envelope, and read the contents.

 

_Dear Dr. Banner:_

_At present, we are searching to fill a Faculty Position in the Center for Soft Matter Research._

_We are soliciting applications for the area of experimental soft condensed matter physics. Duties will include undergraduate and graduate teaching. This position is part of an ongoing multi-year program at NYU to develop an international center for research at the interface between physics, chemistry, biology and engineering._

_I hope you will consider this position carefully. I have attached recent articles under separate cover for your review and to give you a better idea of what it is we hope to accomplish._

_It is my decision, as head of the department, to give you the right of first refusal. Even if this position is not the one for you, I hope you will call my office so that we may become better acquainted. I have always been attentive to the significance of your work and have deplored the lack of a high-level facility at which you could continue._

_Sincerely,_

_Sven Yost, Ph.D._

 

He rejected the offer out of hand: To teach on a campus with thousands of students in the heart of Greenwich Village? Him? With the Other Guy in tow? The idea was too absurd to be considered.

He tossed the envelope, but kept the letter, and put the offer aside.

He went back to work on his flu data.

And mourned what would have been a perfect project for his interests and abilities.

A few hours later and he was still pondering and not getting any work done. He had managed for long period of time to prevent ‘incidents’. The last time the Other Guy had made an entrance had been the Bridge Battle, as the papers called it. He’d been quiescent since then; well, until Steve decided to dangle himself off of a skyscraper last week. It had taken everything Bruce had to keep him under wraps then; he wanted to go off and save Steve in the worst way.

Which Tony had thought was kind of sweet. And which made Bruce realize that emotionally, he was far deeper into his relationship with these two men than he had initially thought. The only other person the Other Guy had gotten excited about, besides Tony and Steve, had been Betty. And they’d wanted to marry her.

He pushed himself back from the table and the computer. The numbers on his screen were making no sense whatsoever — he needed to take a break, and decided to go upstairs and meditate again. That usually helped when he lost focus.

Somehow, instead of taking him to his apartment, his feet took him to Tony’s lab.

“Hey, Big Guy, what’s up?” Stark asked, one of his contraptions on his head that he used for tiny, delicate work. The visor held a bright, white light, and the eye pieces were magnified to whatever level he dialed in. The miniscule micro-circuitry processor in his hands was being gently soldered under the arm of a diminutive laser, sending tiny little wisps of smoke into the air around his head. Bruce had to smile; Stark looked at the moment very much like a 21st century wizard, entirely appropriate.

“Just let me finish this.”

“Sure.” Bruce watched him. He couldn’t help but admire the intense focus Tony put to everything he did. Even his relationships with people, though appallingly blasé in most instances, could become intense when he was with those he cared about. Sometimes under his gaze, Banner had the thought that Tony was reverse-engineering him in an attempt to understand him. Bruce had learned to be protective of himself from a very young age but Stark didn’t intimidate him the way his father had. He felt safe under Tony’s eyes, his arm occasionally, and his roof, especially.

It wasn’t as penetrating as the sense of security he felt around Steve. That young man with the stunning eyes had a quiet aura of greatness about him, an absolute sense of right, along with the strength of will to see it through, to see justice done. His defense of Bruce at the meeting with Ross had given Bruce the ability to seek the truth of what the general had done to him. It felt good to have that out in the open, no matter what the old man threatened to do.

His thoughts went back to Tony, sitting there as still as a watchmaker, hands nicked by burns and cuts still arresting, his dark hair breaking the control of styling products and waving against his neck. His tee shirt was loose and black, probably the one with the Black Sabbath logo across the front, his black jeans splattered with oil and other liquids from the shop. He’d been around his cars today, puttering, polishing, tinkering. It was something Tony did when another project was being difficult and he wanted to think about it without any distractions. Stark could and had put a car together in a day, and taken it apart just as quickly, like some particularly heavy puzzle. He didn’t need any of his formidable concentration to do it.

Tony put down the processor, slid off his contraption, and turned around with that smile Bruce adored. Like Stark was a little boy having fun with his toys. “A little something for Pepper. What can I do you for, Doctor?” He got up to go to the fridge for one of his shakes, which Bruce privately thought looked disgusting. The expression on his face made Tony laugh. “What? You don’t like my shakes? They were a lot worse when I was dying of palladium poisoning.”

“What’s in them?”

“Well, let’s see: vitamins, celery, cucumber, tomatoes, bell peppers, carrots, onions, protein powder, water, and if I need a kick, cayenne.” He slurped it down while Bruce made gagging noises, and then laughed, nearly wearing the rest of it.

“I think I’ll stick with tea.”

“Suit yourself, but a mind like yours needs protein.”

“And your body needs real food.”

“It gets real food. When I’m too busy to eat, it gets the shake. How’s the algorithm working?”

“It’s probably fine, but I can’t concentrate.”

Tony’s eyebrows danced upwards. “You?”

Bruce wanted to thump him. “It happens occasionally. And no crass jokes please.”

“No, of course not. So what’s the problem?”

He outlined the situation with the letter and the job, how perfect it was, if not for the unfortunate habit he had of turning mean and green on irregular occasions.

“Do you want it?”

“Hell yes, Tony! I’d give my arm for an opportunity like this.”

“And you could still do whatever research you want here, right?”

“If your offer still stands.”

Stark sniffed, his gaze suddenly fierce. “Just try leaving and see what happens.”

Bruce nodded and couldn’t prevent a shy smile. “Understood.”

“What does the Other Guy say?”

“Say?”

“Ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

“What he thinks, Bruce! He’s a part of you. You share the same brain, man! Stop pretending he’s not there and let him in.”

Bruce blinked. “Are you insane?”

“No. Just occasionally too brilliant for words. _Ask him_.”

 _And how would I do that?_ he asked himself, astonished he was even considering it. But Stark had a valid point. He’d avoided this for so long; perhaps trying to understand one another would go further than the constant battle to remain detached.

Perhaps if he concentrated on that darkness that usually held the monster in his mind and pushed into it, something would happen. Taking a deep breath, he focused inwardly. He inched closer; it seemed to cling to him in folds of emerald-green velvet, comfortable, benign.

_Hulk?_

**Banner?**

_Holy crap!_ he thought. _You’ve been listening?_

**Ever. Banner always scared. Do, if want. Don’t do, don’t want.**

This was the first time he’d ever really tried communicating with it and he was shocked that the Other Guy replied. The mental voice wasn’t harsh, as he’d expected. It was deep and growly, but that was all.

_Yeah, I’m still here._

**Not know, not try. Hulk protect.**

_I’ll think about it._

**All Banner do. Think.**

He couldn’t argue with that. He slipped away and physically staggered as he came back to the outside of his mind.

Tony’s eyes were almost avariciously bright as he caught him. “So? What’d he say?”

“He thinks I’m a coward, but he’s always thought that. He says that if I want it, I should do it.”

“Yowzah.” Tony clapped his hands together and grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have entered _The Twilight Zone_. How’d it feel?”

“How did I look?”

Tony considered his words and then replied, “Peaceful.”

“Huh. He wasn’t angry like I expected. He wasn’t nasty, either.”

“Well, of course not. He’s your protector, your big green genie who shows up to defend you.”

“He defends himself.”

**No. Protect Banner. Ever.**

Bruce jumped like someone had tapped him on the shoulder unexpectedly. He hadn’t expected the conversation to continue. “Oh, great. Now he’s talking to me.”

Stark smacked his hands together. “That’s fabulous! Bruce, that’s amazing, man! What’d he say?”

“That’s he’s always protected me.”

“And that’s straight from the horse’s mouth. Oh my God, Steve is going to just shit when I tell him.”

He rolled his eyes at Tony’s excitement. “I doubt that.”

“So, go on. Call them.” His hands moved in shooing motions.

“Alright. I’ll call and schedule an appointment.”

“Now,” Stark urged. “Right now.”

“Okay, okay,” Bruce agreed, grinning.

“Go. Now. Move faster.”

Laughing, he let Tony chivvy him next door and to his desk, watched and listened as he made the call to Yost, and smacked him on the back when it was done.

“Okay, we’re going out to celebrate!”

He wondered if he were doing the right thing, but when he reached out, there was a sense of approval radiating from the Other Guy and a touch of smug satisfaction.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would a guy like Steve do on his first birthday back in the world?

His birthday had never been anything been all that big a deal when he was a kid. The celebrations for the Fourth of July were usually more important for everyone.

His mom or aunt would usually make him a nice dinner or bake a cake. His few friends would come around and give him gifts, whatever they could afford at the time. Sometimes it was a new pad for drawing, or a pocket knife from Bucky. You didn’t need much; it was the way things were during the Depression. You were glad to have a roof, food, and enough clothes to keep you warm. Having a job was a plus, and Steve had worked in some pretty sketchy places to just make enough to have anything.

This year, though, he wanted to be alone.

He’d already made some arrangements. Reminded of how frantic his teammates could be (and a little warmed by their affection) he had made certain he told Jarvis he was heading out and where, slipped into the appropriate clothing, and just _went._ A bland, black SHIELD car waited a few blocks away, an agent silently handing over the keys.

He had planned on traveling to Arlington on Memorial Day, but the Chitauri invasion had interfered. He’d decided as he lay awake last night that he’d make the trip today.

He knew where his own grave marker was located as it was identified publicly on the website of the cemetery, right next to Medal of Honor winner and actor Audie Murphy. He’d met Murphy, a small, tough, but quiet man during the war and was saddened to think him gone so young. He wasn’t much interested in seeing his own marker, though he wanted to pass by and pay his respects to the brave men of the Third Infantry Division, to which his own Howling Commandos had been peripherally attached. Their unit’s orders had been to take down the Red Skull and his bases of operation no matter where they were located, which were often entirely outside of any strategic theatre of operations in Europe.

The day was beautiful and the interstate smooth as glass to ride along, miles easily eaten up by the powerful engine. He stopped in Delaware to get something to eat, and then headed along 395 North, taking the 8-B exit to Route 27. Slowing down at the traffic circle in Virginia, he continued on to Memorial Drive.

Once he parked the car he was directed to the Welcome Center, and oriented himself with a map before beginning his walk. There weren’t a great many visitors that day and he was pleased that he probably wouldn’t be recognized in his dress uniform. This was a personal trip for Steve Rogers, not a public event for Captain America.

As he walked the many paths and saluted the monuments he came across, he was brought back to the time before the plane crash, to when he was just a commander forged in battle, trying desperately to keep his men safe and bring them home after each mission. He hadn’t always succeeded; Bucky’s death had only been the latest loss, but it had been the most painful, and it resonated every day. Some days the pool of pain was smaller, and occasionally, it felt like it could swallow him whole, but he was getting through, hopefully keeping it off his face and away from his new team.

He was relieved to find Bucky’s place had been laid next to his own, though he knew his buddy’s body had not been found and returned home. The stone was plain and unadorned, but that was much like the man himself. He was gentle strength, unfailing generosity, and quiet kindness, all hidden beneath a brash, tough exterior. A man who liked to make models from strips of wood, glue, string, and rags, who played stickball in the streets with the kids, and who would take the worst jobs to bring home a couple of dollars to make his mom’s life easier.

He was unable to avoid glancing at his own tombstone. There were two new flags stuck into the ground on either side of the stone and three red roses set in a green tin in the center. The stone itself was of white granite, as were all the others there, and was engraved in black, except for one small, enameled piece that resembled his shield.

Steven G. Rogers

Captain America

1919-1945

 When your time comes to die,

be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death,

so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a

little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.

Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.

~Tecumseh

 

We’ll be at the Stork Club, Saturday at 8.

Don’t be late.

 

He refused to let his eyes well up with tears.

He fought to keep it inside, to block the pain that lodged in his chest, stabbed his lungs, and crushed his heart.

But the tears fell anyway and if his sobs were silent, they were all the more anguished because of it. He stumbled to a nearby bench and held on to himself, startled by this new wash of grief. He thought he’d been all cried out by now.

But God, he missed them so badly. Bucky, and Peggy, Howard, and even the colonel, his men. . . . SHIELD had been generous in giving him the information on his team: how’d they done after the war, marriages, children, jobs. It helped a little to know that they’d gone on, but he couldn’t help feeling that he had been left behind somehow, forgotten.

It was late afternoon when he had finally gained control of himself. He wiped his face, patted Bucky’s tombstone with a shaking hand, and strode away, straightening his shoulders to military correctness. As he paced across the road through the Memorial Amphitheater he came upon the Tomb of the Unknowns and watched with respectful silence the precise steps involved in the changing of the guard. He then saluted the tomb, and turning to his left, took the long road to the parking area by way of Roosevelt Drive. On either side were rows of white headstones, a silent memorial to men who had given everything they had for their country.

After he had gone perhaps ten feet one of the “Old Guard,” members of the Third Infantry who manned Arlington, approached, saluted sharply, and handed him a note. Saluting again, the corporal spun correctly on his heel, and walked away.

Admiring the sharp dress blues that hadn’t wilted in the heat, Steve opened the white piece of paper and read the message for Capt. Steven Rogers: _Call me — Stark._

Steve sighed; so much for being incognito today. In order for him to receive the message, Tony had to have told them not only where he was but _who_ he was. He was just glad that he hadn’t been disturbed by the superintendent or anyone else. Steve didn’t know if he had it in him to be patient with Tony or anyone else today. But he dutifully reached for his phone, just in case it was Avengers business and they needed to assemble.

Tony appeared from behind him with a silent flourish, so quickly that Steve was startled.

“What are you doing here?”

The engineer was dressed in a dark blue suit, a red tie, and white shirt. His presence was muted somehow, all the aggrandizement quieted, the rapid-fire voice and larger-than-life pronouncements silenced.

“Thought you could use a little company,” Tony replied, his eyes unreadable behind dark sunglasses. “You know, after.”

Steve shifted his feet. He didn’t know what to say. “Um, I brought my own car.”

“Correction: You got a car from SHIELD and they’ll get it back. You come with me.”

“To do what?”

“To sit down, eat, have a few drinks. Maybe talk.”

“About what?”

“About them.” He jerked his chin at the rows of tombstones. “It’s too late for me to get to know the ones you’re grieving for, except through you.”

Steve nodded and started walking towards the lot again. “You knew Howard.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tony disagreed with a vehement wave. “I knew my father, who was an entirely different person to the guy you knew during the war. If you don’t use his last name, I might be able to just convince myself, for a little while anyway, that you’re talking about somebody else.”

So Steve talked. Haltingly at first, waiting for some sarcastic, caustic, patented Stark-snark, but when it didn’t come, Rogers felt safe enough to continue. Tony had brought the red and gold Maybach 57 that Steve secretly loved, though he’d never tell Stark for fear he’d ‘gift’ it to him and Steve had the definite feeling that he couldn’t even afford the maintenance, nevermind the insurance. In a short period of time they’d arrived at a steakhouse called _Ruth’s Chris_ , and were ushered inside to a corner table near the kitchen and an easy escape in case they needed to make one.

Tony ordered two Dirty Goose martinis and waved away Steve’s insistence that he wouldn’t feel it. “Just keep me company, okay?”

“Surprised you’re not getting some ridiculously overpriced Scotch.”

The other man’s smile was a little secretive, but he didn’t comment until their drinks came. He raised his glass. “A toast to those not with us today but always remembered.”

Steve gave a wan smile. “I wouldn’t have thought you a visitor to a national military cemetery, Tony.”

Stark perused the menu briefly. “I haven’t been to any cemetery since my parents died. Uh, were murdered.” He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a belief system; especially not one that includes an afterlife. But the last place a man should go on his _birthday,”_ he said with heavy emphasis, “is there, and it’s just plain ridiculous to go alone.” He gave Steve a hard glance, and then shook his head with a smile. “Then you’re not your average guy, are you?” he said, putting the menu down.

The waiter came closer after hovering quietly in the background. “Specials, gentlemen?”

“Not tonight, thanks,” Tony replied. “What do you want, Steve?”

“I’m not real hungry,” he said, staring blankly at the menu.

“Give my friend here the biggest steak you can find, a couple of baked potatoes, and a huge bowl of something green and leafy. I’ll have the lobster. And another round.”

The waiter departed, back quickly with bread, various appetizers, and more drinks.

Contrary to what he expected, once Steve began eating, he was ravenous. Tony spent the rest of the night being charming, gregarious, and very, very funny. He’d drunk a little, but nowhere near his usual, and Steve appreciated the effort.

Later that evening, as they drove home with the top down, Steve dozed while Tony sang along to the music, kept at a volume that wouldn’t deafen him. It was a beautiful night, the stars blazing in a cloudless sky above, and if his heart still stung some, it was comforted by the man who had cared enough to see that he didn’t do it alone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's interview and what it would mean if he accepted the position.

Bruce was ridiculously nervous on the morning of his interview. So nervous in fact, hishands were stuffed into his pants pockets until his fingers ached as he waited in the garage for Steve to pick a car that would get them where they were going with the bare minimum of attention.

Bruce had warned Rogers it might be an impossible feat: this was _Stark’s_ garage after all, and the billionaire had no qualms in buying the latest model of anything for two million dollars if he liked it. Most of the cars Tony had here Bruce didn’t even recognize the names of. The red and gold Maybach Laudolet sat comfortably next to a pitch black Ferrari 590 XXX and across from a silver Porsche 918 Spyder. Steve finally pulled up in something with four wheels that was such a bright red that it made fire-engines tame in comparison. It was another Ferrari he noticed, but at least this one didn’t appear that it would be mistaken for a race car. When Bruce slipped into his seat-belt he noticed that the speedometer would go to 300 mph and swallowed.

Steve glanced at him and gave a wry grin. “I know. It’s pretty flashy but at least it doesn’t have a racing stripe. And it’s a manual.” Smoothly, Rogers drove them out of the garage and onto the street. “I only know how to drive a manual. We didn’t have automatic trannies on the jeeps in the Army.”

“Is that where you learned to drive?”

“No. Bucky and I both learned on his second cousin Joe’s ’29 Ford Convertible on some rural roads in Connecticut.” He chuckled. “I don’t think the trees there will ever be the same. I know Joey’s car wasn’t.”

“I appreciate your coming with me, Steve,” Bruce said again.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve thanked me, but you’re welcome. Try and relax, Bruce. It’s only a meeting with another scientist; you can do that standing on your head.”

“I know you’re right, but . . .” Bruce shrugged and tried to stop locking his fingers together.

Steve dropped one of his big hands over them. “It’ll be okay. I’m your bodyguard today, just in case you feel a little overwhelmed and need backup. I’ll be watching you and what’s around you. Did you tell the Other Guy what’s happening?”

“Um, he knows.”

“Good, then there shouldn’t be any surprises.”

_Oh, good God, I hope not._

He was still trembling when they arrived at the Meyers Physics Building. It was a large, red-bricked square with glass doors and granite steps. Steve had placed the “Avengers Official Business” placard on the dash so that wherever they parked, the car wouldn’t get towed or fined. Anyone who tried to steal it would undoubtedly get a nasty surprise, too, courtesy of Jarvis and Tony’s appreciation for electricity and its effects on the human nervous system.

Taking a deep breath, he got out of the car and looked around. There were a _lot_ of people on the campus and he swallowed nervously.

**Banner. Safe with Starman.**

He looked down at his feet and gave a little smile. _I know. You stay calm, okay? Nothing needs to be smashed here, especially not the people._

There was a soft growl in response and the sense that the Other Guy was moving back and away from what his eyes would perceive through Bruce’s. **Banner be calm**.

_I should take my own advice, huh? You’re right._

Steve came to his side and waited until Bruce was ready to move. The soldier was alert but relaxed; a strange dichotomy that only people in the military and police seemed to be able to manage. That brought a friend to mind. “Hey,” he said, as they walked up the steps, “maybe we could go see Phil after this?”

“Sure. I’m certain he’d be glad to see someone outside of doctors, physical therapists, Tasha, Clint and me. He’s getting bored.”

“He’s lucky he’s alive to be getting bored. But I guess after a month or so, that wears off.”

They checked in at the security desk in the lobby. After the guard had made a phone call, he handed them visitor ID badges and gave them directions to Yost’s office. The elevator appeared relatively large, so Bruce didn’t mind getting into it even with a dozen students crowding in behind them. Steve inconspicuously herded him into a corner and hid him behind his bulk, so that no one would even accidentally bump him.

They slipped out on the fourth floor, and followed the guard’s directions to Yost’s office at the end of the hall. The old wooden door opened into a small sitting room, a secretary’s metal desk to the left. With Steve’s hand in the small of his back, he was directed to the seat in the corner. Steve stood behind him, his bright blue eyes covered by his sunglasses, hands comfortably clasped in front of him. Bruce smiled as the secretary looked up at Steve and was instantly transfixed. Even in a well-cut suit, Steve’s handsome face and body could not be hidden.

Yost’s entrance into the room from his office broke her gaze, and she babbled for a moment until she could remember Bruce’s name.

Banner took the moment to size up the scientist. Yost was nothing special in the academic world, but his scientific aspect was significant enough that Bruce thought he could work with him.

An extremely tall man with silver-blond hair, wide in the shoulders and significant of girth turned towards him. Then lime green eyes swung to Bruce and a cheerful smile widened the obviously Nordic face, huge hands coming out to shake his. “Dr. Banner! This is a pleasure! I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am that you decided to visit.” Yost’s eyes swung to Steve. “And this is? A colleague of yours?”

“Of sorts. Sven Yost meet Steve Rogers.”

Steve was polite and shook his hand, charming as only he could be. They walked into Yost’s office and Bruce had to smile. It was stuffed full of journals, books, pictures, piles of papers on the floor, and on every possible surface. The scientist moved a pile of pages out of the chairs and directed the two men to sit.

“Thanks,” Steve said, “but I’ll just stay by the door while you talk. I wouldn’t understand one word in three anyway.”

Bruce chuckled and handed a copy of his curriculum vitae to Yost, who tossed it uncaringly on a pile. “You know that’s unnecessary. I’ve followed your career, your work, for years. Up until your . . . what do you call it? Accident?”

“That works,” Bruce admitted, feeling the Other Guy shuffle uncomfortably in his head. Hulk no accident.

Leave it alone, Bruce insisted. Now is not the time to get testy about semantics. I want this job, remember? Shh.

“Well, let’s get that over with,” Yost said with a grimace of distaste. “I don’t want a furious group of parents to blackball me because of your presence, yet, I believe that you have the Hulk under control. At least, that’s what I saw during the Battle. Tell me what you think, Bruce.”

He sighed. “It’s a definite issue, Dr. Yost. I can’t tell you that there’s no risk because there is. If someone attempts to harm me, kidnap me. . . . If the Other Guy perceives danger, you can expect to find a big green monster rampaging through the halls. I will do what I can to mitigate the threat; alert SHIELD, perhaps have agents around, but that’s all I can do. The question is, am I worth that to you?”

Yost sat back and played with a pencil, obviously considering. Then he said, slowly and with great emphasis, “You are worth a hundred Hulks to me and this department. Hell, this science. I’ve spoken with people who’ve worked with you and if only half of what they say is true, there is so much good, important science you have yet to do, and as for teaching? My graduate students are foaming at the mouth to get at you. You have no idea of your stature in this community. Yes, even with the Hulk, I want you.” He gave Bruce a smile and smacked his hands on his desk blotter. “I will share with you that Stark has promised to make the college whole if the green guy does do any damage of a structural nature.”

Bruce got immediately angry. Damn Tony anyway. “Is that all he promised?”

Yost shrugged thick shoulders. “That’s all I cared about. Though the university has an endowment, rebuilding isn’t cheap. We already lost the library from the Battle, and it’s going to take at least $130 mil to get that back together. Education is ridiculously expensive these days; better labs, equipment, teachers — it all takes money, and my budget is tight. I don’t have the wherewithal to reconstruct the physics building and keep the department running. So that is an issue for me. Okay?”

Bruce tamped down his annoyance. “Okay. I just don’t want you to consider me for the job because of Stark’s money.”

The Swede narrowed his gaze to a green glare and Banner could sense that the man probably had a volcanic temper. “Stark can’t buy me, Bruce. He can buy the university, lock, stock, and endowment, but not me. Clear?”

“As crystal. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He smiled and leaned on his desk. “What say we take the tour? I can introduce you to the staff and you can get a feel for what’s going on here.”

Bruce stood up with a smile. “Sounds good.”

Yost hadn’t lied. While the physical plant of the building was older, the equipment was up to date and in great condition. He quietly watched some of the experiments that were ongoing, made a few comments, gave a few off the cuff ideas, and was pleased when Yost grinned at him. Steve stayed near him, saying nothing, but being a comforting presence at his back.

They had lunch with Yost and a group of excited graduate students and Bruce was so caught up in their questions and ideas that he forgot to be nervous. When they returned to Yost’s office later that afternoon, the Swede was looking more than satisfied. As they entered his office, the scientist tossed a packet at him. He caught it and asked, “What’s this?”

“Your employment information. It’s Thursday; if you can get it back to me tomorrow that would be great. Your schedule’s in there as well. If you don’t want to be on campus while you’re not teaching, I have no problem if you choose to stay home and work from there. It’s entirely up to you. You’ll carry four classes, two undergrad and two graduate, while overseeing a few projects in the Soft Matter labs until you have decided what in particular you want to work on.” He smiled and looked down at the mess of his desk. “I’ll see you Monday and give you the full tour of the college. Any questions?”

“Um, no, don’t think so.”

“Well, you have my cell, if you do. Fax those back to me, the number’s in there.” He waved and it was obvious his mind had gone on to other things. “Monday. Bye.”

It was a stunned Bruce Banner who wandered into the elevator next to Steve. “I can’t believe it.”

“Come on, Bruce, even I know you’re brilliant. I saw how you were able to work with Tony to find the ‘glow stick of destiny,’ as Stark calls it. And for the record, I didn’t understand _any_ of what they were talking about in there.”

He chuckled. “Physics is a language all its own.”

“If you can call that language. Sounded like gobbledy-gook to me.”

With a smile, Bruce got into the flashy red car.

“I called Phil,” Steve said. “He’s not having a good day and hoped we’d come by another time.”

“Huh. What’s going on?”

“He didn’t say all that much,” Steve replied as they stopped at a red light. “But I think he and Clint had an argument.”

“Why? What makes you say that?”

“He was grumbling about pain in the ass archers.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s Clint,” Bruce replied with a laugh.

“Can’t be easy, trying to keep Coulson from doing too much. I should call Sitwell. Probably a good idea to have a few SHIELD agents around until you settle into your new job and get comfortable. I can go with you for a while at least and then have them take over, if you like.”

“You wouldn’t mind? I would feel more comfortable with you,” Bruce admitted.

“It’s okay by me. If I get pulled off for a mission, they can sit in until I get back.”

Bruce called and left a message with Sitwell, explaining the situation and what he thought Bruce would require. He was pleased by how easily it had all gone, and in a great mood when he arrived at the Tower.

Talking with Steve as they made their way up to the communal floor, he didn’t realize they had company until he damn near slammed head-first into Nick Fury. Only Steve’s lightning reflexes kept him from doing so, his good mood evaporating like water on a hot plate at the grim expression on Fury’s face.

“Director,” Steve greeted, sounding wary, but respectful. The group still hadn’t decided how they wanted to deal with SHIELD and at the moment there was a careful _détente_.

“Captain. Doctor, could I have a word with you?”

Apparently, Fury’s jaw was healed enough for him to talk. Bruce’s stomach went tight and the Other Guy let out a growl of dislike. This time he didn’t shush him. “Okay. What do we have to talk about?”

“How about the idea of the Hulk in lower Manhattan amongst hundreds of highly-excitable college students? Don’t you think that’s worth a discussion or two?”

Fury was pissed, that much was obvious. The Other Guy growled louder, a resounding crash of sound in his skull.

“I didn’t think that a job would be such a problem, director. I thought you wanted me to become a useful member of society again,” he replied, walking past Fury and into the kitchen. A cup of tea would be a good idea about now.

“I am responsible for you, doctor! The last thing any of us need is for the Hulk to start using college kids as bowling balls.”

Bruce didn’t get mad. He couldn’t afford to. “The problem with you, Nick, is that you’re too narrow a thinker.”

Fury gave him a glare out of his one good eye. It was intimidating; Bruce would give him that.

“You know you want the Other Guy as a weapon, but only for you to use. You know you want me to help SHIELD with scientific problems, as they come up, and that’s fine. However, you don’t _really_ think you need the scientist. You believe that there’s nothing you could use me for that you couldn’t get from someone else. Well, sorry, Nick, but that’s not good enough. There are plenty of people who think my mind is more valuable than the Hulk’s muscle.” He took a breath, and felt power well up in his belly. “I won’t be locked inside any kind of box, director, and you know what? You can’t make me.”

Fury looked shocked by at his response.

“The last time I was on a college campus, Ross tried to kill me. The kids who were injured then had their eardrums broken and developed brain damage from the sonics that _he_ used. The Other Guy didn’t hurt anyone who wasn’t in an army uniform and trying to murder us.” He threw his hands up. “Don’t even try to blame or guilt us on that score. It was pure defense on our part.”

“Which wouldn’t have been needed if you hadn’t been there!”

“That’s bull, and you know it. Ross is the only one responsible; isn’t that the rationale we used with him? The one you ostensibly agreed with?”

“He’s right, director. You can’t have it both ways,” Steve added. “Either he’s a threat without cause, a rabid animal, or he’s a man who’s been forced to become a threat to protect himself. Which is it? Which one do you believe?”

“You know which I believe, Rogers! But . . . the questions have to be asked. Contingencies have to be prepared.”

Bruce fell into a dining room chair. “What makes me less of a threat here, Nick? I can still change in the tower. Thor’s the only one who can stop me, maybe, and even that isn’t confirmed. Doesn’t it stand to reason that the more content I am, the more relaxed he’ll be?”

“Did he tell you he can talk to the Hulk now?” Steve asked.

Fury frowned and turned to Banner, his focus entirely changed. “Really? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that?”

“Yeah. Sort of.” Bruce felt tired all at once and slumped down in his chair.

**Hulk not like Fury make Banner sad.**

_It’s okay, though. He won’t hurt us._

**Sad is hurt.**

Bruce smiled. _Not the kind of hurt that needs you to help_.

There was a silence, and then a low, bass growl erupted from Bruce’s throat, through his closed mouth.

“Bruce?” Steve asked, his eyes widening.

“No, it’s okay. He’s just upset with Nick’s analysis.”

“Upset? Does that mean what I think it means?” Fury was backing away from him.

“It means just what I said. He doesn’t like that I’m . . . sad.”

The director looked at Steve, who shrugged. “He’s Bruce’s protector, sir. How did you expect him to react when you jump all over the guy?”

Fury turned away and said nothing for a while. Then, he patted Bruce’s shoulder, very gently. “All right, doctor. We’ll do it your way. Any episodes though, and we’re going to revisit this conversation.”

Bruce nodded.

Stark passed Fury on his way out and walked into the common room with a questioning expression. “What was he doing here? And what did I miss?”

“The director has some concerns about Bruce working at a college in such a populated area,” Steve offered.

“Like midtown’s not populated?” Tony asked, echoing Bruce’s own argument. “Tell me he didn’t pull the ‘you’re too dangerous’ card.”

“Yes, he did,” Steve told him, his voice annoyed and slightly frustrated.

_Welcome to my world, Steve. Two steps forward, one step back._

“That—! He can be dangerous as long as it’s where he wants him to be, the two-faced—”

“Maybe he has a point,” Bruce interrupted. “Am I just doing what I want and putting lives at risk without consideration?”

“Were you threatening lives in Kolkata?” Steve asked. “Or were you helping? There were no SHIELD agents to protect you there, no cars to take you to and from work, no one to prevent you being harmed or injured by any of the desperate people around you. The Hulk didn’t perceive any threats, because no one knew where you were, especially Ross. Now that he’s been warned off, you’re no more dangerous here than you would be there.”

“I think what Steve is trying to make certain you understand, Big Guy, is that we trust you,” Tony added. “With _our_ lives. And we’re all kind of partial to living and let living.”

Bruce gave a small smile. “I was so excited, thinking I could have a part of my life back. Now I’m not so sure.” He got up and left the area, going to his room and removing the suit jacket that Tony liked so much. He put it back in the closet, and tossed the packet of forms on his bed.

He and his alter-ego had some thinking to do.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony tries to de-tox on his own. Doesn't work as well as he had planned.

Tony watched as Bruce walked past him and into the elevator, his shoulders slightly rounded **.**

“Jarvis, play back Fury’s last conversation with Bruce, please,” Steve asked, and the television lit up and repeated the scene, Rogers silent as it played.

Stark grinned when Banner stood up for himself, _finally_. “Did you notice he’s saying ‘us’ now, instead of the ‘Other Guy’?”

“Yeah.” Steve rubbed his face. “I’m not entirely sure about this either, Tony, but Bruce deserves a chance. If not for him, the Chitauri would have won, you would have died. . . .”

“Millions of women would have mourned,” Tony quipped, but brushed it aside at Steve’s pained expression. “I know, Steve, I know. And the probability is that Ross will do something to set the Big Guy off. That’s his m.o., his style. He has to be seen in the right for his policy of Hulk containment and destruction to be approved with public agreement.”

“But if Bruce doesn’t have this chance. . .”

“One that seems to be tailor-made for him—” Stark turned to Steve, nodding at the sudden spark that entered Steve’s eyes.

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s too good. Could Ross have lured the college into taking him on, with the proviso that the military would be there to protect the students?”

“Have you been in the Village? The military doesn’t exactly mesh with the Washington Park ethos.”

Steve waved that aside. “Not the students. But the president, the board, those sort of people, who may want to go into politics or—”

“Have a reason to cozy up to Ross and his coterie of low-brained, high-powered donkeys. Was Nick trying to tell us it was too good to be true? No, if course not,” Tony answered himself. “He was covering his own ass, as usual.”

“It’s time to let the spymaster do what he does best,” Steve said with a threatening smile. “Jarvis, call Fury and put it on speaker. We need to have a conversation.”

  

Later that night, in the privacy of his lab as he focused on one of the fourteen current projects that had priority, he sipped his bourbon with a sigh of relief. He’d been so good since Steve asked him to “slow down” his drinking. Though he knew he drank a _lot_ , he hadn’t realized that he’d been essentially tanked up from breakfast until he collapsed into bed at night . . . morning . . . whenever.

The symptoms had been growing more intense for days, usually the worst when he woke up and really needed a drink the most. He hadn’t been able to sleep, didn’t want to eat, and if he did, it reappeared in nauseating rapidity.

He was more snappish than ever, which was one of the things he had been worried about. The booze helped him deal with people on a daily basis, who could _never_ follow his thinking, or understand how he went from point A to Z even after he’d explained it two or three times.

He knew, from all that he’d read, that he was heading for withdrawal. He’d tapered his intake to less than half of what it had been.

Right now he had a godawful headache, his hands were shaking, and he was sweating. His hands kept trembling even while he drank the bourbon, not a good thing for a guy who worked with them all the time. “Turn up the a/c, Jarvis,” he requested, and went back to tweaking components of the suit tech on the screen.

“Sir, don’t you think it best to go to a professional to detoxify?” Jarvis’ voice was its usual plummy British tones, but there was a slight sense of anxiety in it that Tony knew he hadn’t programmed.

“No, J. I’ve read what can happen. I know what my body’s doing. It should stop soon.”

“Not to belabor the point, sir, but you had been drinking at least 32 ounces a day and usually much more since the day I came online. It is irrational to believe that you can reduce your intake without a physician’s oversight.”

“Thanks for your input, Jarvis. I appreciate that you’re worried about me, mother.”

“At least you should advise Dr. Banner.”

“As he so constantly reminds me, he’s not a _real_ doctor.”

“Then you should consult Dr. Buzz at Columbia Presbyterian.”

“Jarvis, he’s a cardiac surgeon and trauma specialist.”

“He’s also your friend and physician—”

“What he knows about alcohol withdrawal—”

“Is far more than you do, sir.”

They were deeply into the argument when Bruce appeared at Tony’s side, a cup of coffee in his hand and another with tea. “Excuse me? Alcohol withdrawal?”

“Thanks, J. I really appreciate your being so deeply involved in my life that you choose to share it with others,” Tony replied with a snap, sighing, an abundance of sarcasm hovering over the words as he covered his face with his hands.

“I am programmed to always be of some assistance, sir.”

Bruce chuckled and put down the coffee cup where Tony could reach it. “I swear he’s getting more sarcastic now that Clint has moved in.”

“I’m going kick that archer’s ass if he’s corrupted my AI,” Tony growled, wiping his face with his sleeve. “J, didn’t I ask you to turn up the air?”

“Yes, sir. I did so. It is operating on maximum capacity. May I suggest removing clothing?”

“Then I’d just sweat all over my keyboard.”

“What’s the temperature, Jarvis? You could hang meat in here!”

“It is currently 62 degrees and falling, Dr. Banner.”

“Remind me to bring a sweater down next time.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Bruce leaned a hip against Tony’s desk and swung his chair around so that Tony had to face him, locking his movement with a knee. His expression was completely nonjudgmental as he sipped his tea. “All right, Tony. What’s going on?”

He hesitated. He wanted to do this alone; it was his problem and his choice. But, he reminded himself, Jarvis didn’t get this intransigent unless his primary protocol of protecting his creator’s life was in danger. In those instances, Tony had designed to AI to do what had to be done . . . with little impact on the ethics involved in _how_.

“Don’t even consider lying to me,” Bruce warned.

 _Damn, he’s quick._ “Steve asked me to cut my drinking.”

Banner’s response was cool. “And how does that differ from the other people who have asked the same thing?”

“Damn it, Banner, could you just focus on the method and not the motive?”

Bruce just waited, scratching his elbow lazily, but not saying anything else.

“Because it’s Steve. I want him to . . . like me. And I certainly don’t want him thinking I can’t hold my own on the team.” He snorted. “It’s not like I was their first choice, you know.”

“So, let me get this straight: you’re willing to change an addiction of a lifetime, because you want Steve to _like_ you?”

“And to stay on the team. Jeez, it sounds like so wussy when you say it.”

“I don’t think that’s even a real word, Tony. Besides you and I both know the kind of courage it takes to even think about what you’re doing, nevermind implement a strategy. Jarvis, on average, what’s Tony’s daily consumption of alcohol?”

“It shifts erratically, Dr. Banner, dependent on his mood and temperament, but roughly 48 to 64 ounces of high-end grain alcohol, not including champagne and wine at functions.”

He watched Bruce blink. His focus went elsewhere for a few minutes, and then returned to gaze at Tony. “Almost a half-gallon a day on a regular basis since you were young?” His voice was soft and he whistled. “And you’re able to create through all of that?”

“Obviously,” Tony replied dryly, “It’s a diet that suits me.”

“It’s not a diet. And it doesn’t suit Steve. Or me. Or anyone who loves you. And you somehow believed you could do this without a doctor’s oversight? Without anything to help you through the rougher parts? You do know that what you’re describing could cause seizures, brain damage, _death_ if not properly managed with barbiturates, intravenous fluids, and vitamin therapy? That there’s a real protocol out there to help?”

“I did all the relevant research, Bruce,” Tony snapped, “I’m not an idiot. I’m not quitting — I’m just taking it a little slower.”

“Yes, you are an idiot,” he replied, then his voice dropped into that low, breathy bass that made Tony shiver. “You’re not dying on me, you bastard. I’m not telling Pepper or Steve that we lost you because of your damned pride. If you want to do this, we’re going to do it right.”

Tony ground his teeth, and tried to control the anger that was tearing through him. “I don’t want your help!”

“Maybe not, but it’s glaringly obvious you need it. When did this start?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Jarvis. What’s his physical status?”

“Sir is experiencing hyperthermia, agitation, anorexia, irritability, restlessness, migraine, low-level physical pain and muscular cramping, headache, hypertension, nausea, insomnia, irritability, and vomiting.”

“And his intake?”

“32 ounces exactly, Dr. Banner.”

“You essentially cut it in half and expected to just ride through like nothing was happening? Are you taking any drugs to assist your withdrawal?”

“I don’t take drugs, Bruce. I barely tolerate aspirin and Tylenol,” Tony growled. “I can do this.”

Bruce put his hands on either side of Tony’s face, and held him so tightly he could only look into his eyes. His friend’s face was dark with worry. “I _know_ you can do this, Tony. Can we just make it easier? A little slower, perhaps? Does it always have to be light-speed with you?” And then, a broken sounding, “Please?”

They all had different demons. If he was going to help Bruce with his, he had to be open to Bruce helping him right back. “Jarvis?”

“Sir?”

“Give Bruce Buzzie’s private number.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who is Buzzie?” Banner asked, slowly letting him go.

“Dr. Michael Buzz. You’ve seen him on TV. I’ve known him since I first put the ARC reactor in my chest and needed a cardiologist to check the movement of the shrapnel. He’s my on-call for everything from a hangnail to a fractured skull.”

He smiled a little when Bruce tilted his head down and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, Tony.”

Bruce pulled back and walked away, murmuring with the AI as he made a phone call.

He shook his head, swallowed his drink, and poured another before returning to his models.

When Bruce opened the door to the lab an hour later, a tall, lanky body followed, and Tony growled and dropped his head on his desk. “You were just supposed to talk to him, Bruce!”

“It’s good to see you too, Tony,” Buzz said, his smile wide and cheerful as he clapped what had to be his worst patient on the shoulder. “So, playing doctor again, are you?”

“Well, you know me, Doc. Fastest way to get the girls to take their clothes off.”

Buzz chuckled and pulled him out of his chair and onto the couch at the far end, before pushing Tony down onto his back.

“Jeez, doc, most guys at least buy me dinner first,” he muttered, as the doctor pulled up his shirt to listen to his heart before checking his pulse, respiration, pressure, and sticking a thermometer in his mouth from the bag he carried.

He glared down at the results. “Stark, what have I always told you?”

“Um, that I’m lucky to be alive and that my liver was not built to be pickled in expensive bourbon?”

That made Buzzie smile. “What else?”

“That a phone call is cheaper than a coffin?”

Bruce snickered from his place behind Buzz. “I _like_ him.”

“Tony, you’ve put unnecessary strain on your heart with this ham-fisted, hare-brained idea, but I applaud the goal. We’ll do it on _my_ schedule, thank you, dependent on the test results of your CDT values.”

Tony just looked at him. “I feel like Rogers. What is CDT and why should I care?”

“Carbohydrate-deficient transferrin values, Tony,” Bruce supplied. “Elevated values give a better idea of how saturated you system is and for how long.”

Buzz gave Bruce a glance, nodding. “Exactly. Give me your arm.” The doctor efficiently took a few vials of blood and tucked them into his bag.

“I’m putting you on clonidine to help with the symptoms.”

“No,” Stark growled, abruptly sitting up. “No drugs.”

Buzz bit his lower lip for a moment, no doubt fighting down the sharp words he wanted to use. Surgeons weren’t always the most politic of people as a rule; Tony liked that about him. “Okay, how about nitrous oxide?”

“Laughing gas?” Bruce asked. “Is that effective?”

“Studies say it is. Since Mr. Stark refuses to take a barbiturate, arguably doesn’t require an anti-psychotic or an anticonvulsant, ni-ox is the only other option.”

“I don’t want this to be obvious, Buzzie.”

The doctor lifted a hand to the lab. “Is anyone going to notice another canister of anything in here?”

“Guess not. Is that going to help with my desire to rip the heads off of people?” he asked.

“That a recent development?”

“Not really. The drinking was supposed to help with my less than charming personality quirks.”

“You use alcohol to help your temper?” Banner asked, eyes wide.

“Hey, it’s better than turning green,” Tony grumbled back.

“It’ll help with the anxiety and agitation. The other symptoms will decrease as we lower your intake on a _medically-approved schedule_ ,” Buzz repeated, his angular face showing his displeasure. “Seriously, Tony, why didn’t you call me? You had to know this is a big deal. The danger—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s less than when I strap on the suit and go twelve rounds with the latest nasties to have infested New York.”

“Perhaps,” Buzz replied evenly, apparently not convinced. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Maintain your usual schedule, but just take a little off each drink, maybe a third. You do this too fast and the problems that arise will land you in intensive care. Am I clear, Mr. Stark?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, his voice mock-trembling. “Nothing like being threatened with sponge baths to get you to behave.”

The doctor chuckled, patted Tony on the shoulder and departed, following Bruce out of the lab and up the stairs.

“Jarvis, you snitched on me to Bruce, didn’t you?” he mused.

“Program protocol 001 was in effect, sir. Your life was in jeopardy.”

“Surprised you didn’t just call an ambulance.”

“That was Step Three, sir, along with a call to your physician.”

“Step Two?”

“To contact Captain Rogers, sir, and if necessary, Ms. Potts.”

Tony blew out a long breath. “Low blow there, Jarvis.”

“I will do what I must, sir.”

“Don’t I know it.” Tony considered. “Thanks, J.”

“By your command.”

“Oh, god, lines from _Battlestar Galactica_. At least it wasn’t _2001: A Space Opera_.”

“You would terminate my program, sir.” His AI managed to sound affronted.

“Damned straight. Shut it down, Jarvis. I am taking my bottle and going to bed.”

He went to the penthouse. When the guys decided to sleep, they’d find him.

  

The next day was better; his headache was less, his hands didn’t shake, and he was able to eat a little.

Thankfully, Jarvis hadn’t felt the need to contact Pepper, which would have been a whole ‘nother debacle. Bruce kept wandering by to check on him, and as long as Tony ignored him, he didn’t say anything more about last night. Tony continued his slightly-less than usual intake and didn’t have the overwhelming urge to bite anyone. On one of Bruce’s walk-throughs, Tony asked, “Don’t mention this to Steve, all right? It’s bad enough I have you, Jarvis, and Buzzie watching me like mother hens, I don’t need him, too.”

Bruce leaned a hip against Tony’s lab table, idly playing with a piece of wire that had been sitting there. “Did you think any more about the real reason you’re doing this, Tony?”

He didn’t look up from the aircar design he was ripping apart to start from scratch. “I told you why.”

“So that Steve will _like_ you; yeah, I remember. What makes you think he doesn’t?”

“He does, sort of,” Tony admitted. “I just want . . . more.”

“More? Of what? Of Steve?”

Tony bit his lip and went back to his work, pointedly ignoring Bruce’s questions.

“I think you have a crush on our soldier, Tony.”

“And that would be different from _you_ , how exactly?”

His response had been sharp and immediate, tone too harsh. Stark sighed, and pushed away from his screen.

Bruce was shaking his head and smiling.

“What?”

“It’s okay, Tony; if I felt that way about a guy, it would be Steve, or _you_. But the questions remains whether he rides the men bus.”

Stark frowned. There were many things he wanted to have with Steve: a friendship, certainly; a lover, possibly; but first and foremost, he wanted inside the guy’s head. Right now though, at this moment, he refused to do or think anything further that would deepen his fascination with Steve Rogers. He turned his gaze completely on Bruce, deciding that a little turnaround was fair play. “I don’t know whether you do, either.”

The dark eyes crinkled as a wide smile swept over Bruce’s mobile mouth. “Have you seen my options? I take what I can get.”

Tony smiled, but kept his gaze locked on Bruce. “Ha. You mean, you could have anyone you want.”

“Almost everyone.”

The silence fell and was painful until Bruce asked, “So what are you going to do about Rogers? As much as you two squabble, I find it hard to believe that it’s a one-way thing.”

“Yeah, I want Steve,” Tony admitted, trying to make it sound casual when it was anything but. “I want inside his adorably little black and white head in the worst way. I want to know what it’s like for the world to be shiny and new, with a side of dangerous for spice. I can’t help but wonder if we can be more than just friends.” He let out a gusty sigh and gave up on the aircar for the moment. “He’s pretty skittish, when not being all adorably heroic. I think it’s about connections to people and the kind he thinks are safe to have right now.” He shook his head and admitted, “None of us are all square in the brain pan, Bruce, but Steve has more emo hurts than either one of us could handle. That he’s still sane is a check in the win column, ‘cause if he goes the other way, we’re all in for a world of hurt.”

“He needs friends, Tony, people who can help him find his way.” Bruce thought a few more minutes and then added, “Besides, I don’t believe he’s gotten to the bottom of the well of pain he’s carrying. When he finally hits it, it won’t be pretty.”

Tony rubbed his mouth and looked at Banner darkly. “We’ve both been there; we know what it takes to get back up.”

“Steve has it. He can do it. But he’ll need help.”

“We’ll be there, Bruce,” Tony agreed, standing, stretching, and patting Bruce on the back. “Both of us.”

Banner nodded and shook himself lightly.

“Not to have too drastic a change of subject, but. . . .”

“But?”

“You’re taking the job at NYU, right?”

Bruce sighed. “I haven’t quite made up my mind.” He began wringing his hands again.

“Yes, you have.” Tony turned back to his screens. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Fury—”

Anger rose up and nearly choked him. “Fuck Fury! Literally; take him if you want to.” He pulled a disgusted face. “But don’t let him stop you from doing anything.”

Bruce released a tight chuckle. “He’s worried.”

“It’s his job to worry. You wouldn’t want to take that away from the modern Atlas, would you? Look, he likes to feel he’s got the world on his shoulders or he wouldn’t be director of SHIELD.”

The two men were silent for a few long minutes, and then Bruce murmured, “I’m going to take the job.”

“Hallelujah!” Tony cried, throwing his hands up in the air. “Now that that’s settled, Pepper’s planning an Avengers event at Washington Square Park next month.”

“Why?”

“To introduce Mean Green to his new neighbors.”

Bruce blinked. “You both assumed I’d be taking the job.”

“Yep.”

“Oh. Um, as a show of support, though, pulling in the team is a bit much.”

“Nonsense. Pepper is the epitome of taste and class. We show up, we have fun with people, and we make a nice PR splash.”

“What am I missing?”

“Missing?” Tony looked over Bruce with intense focus. “You seem to be all there, but you are wearing clothes, so. . . .”

“Why are we doing this?”

The engineer shook his head. “Jeez, Bruce, a little trust in my business and PR acumen would be appreciated! We play nice with the students, parents calm down, the university is happy, and SHIELD breathes a sigh of relief.”

“You want the Other Guy to play nice with a crowd of excited teenagers around, all of whom will probably be squealing and yelling, their cameras flashing, people close and probably grabby, and think that will be okay? Sounds like a mess in the making. I want no part of it.” He shook his head and pushed the idea away with both hands.

“Because you have no faith in you, me, or the Other Guy. But worse, you’re doubting Pepper Potts and her amazing ability to make even the most difficult situations run well. Come on, Bruce; she was my PA for years. She has a handle on the impossible.” He made shooing motions. “Go away, Doubting Thomas. Genius at work.”

Bruce shook his head in disbelief, and finally walked out of the lab. Stark immediately dove back into the aircar project and pushed any and all other distractions aside.

  

Pepper’s call broke him from his focus that night. Her ringtone was a howling version of Styx’s _Lady_ and it usually tore him from whatever he was doing at the moment, if only to sing along. He picked it up, realizing he was hungry and needed more coffee. “Hiya, Pepper.”

“Hi, yourself. What’s going on?”

“We’re a ‘go’ for _Project: Green Park_.”

There was a squeal on the other end. “He’s taking the job!”

“Hmm. Yeah.”

“So why do you sound like your dog just died?”

“I’ve lost my lab buddy,” he grumbled.

“He’ll still live there, Tony,” she comforted. “Still be working all hours, drinking his herbal tea, and complaining that your music is interfering with his experiments.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Stark shook himself. “Did you finalize dinner with Frank?”

“Yes. He’s terribly excited about it; even called me back himself to confirm the arrangements.”

“Not a bad guy, all in all, even if he is a reporter. How’s my former bodyguard?”

“He’s fine. Still having the guilts over leaving you, though. It would be nice if you would talk to him about it.”

Stark huffed. “He should be guilty! He should be drowning in it. The big bastard dumped me like yesterday’s meatloaf!”

“He didn’t dump you, idiot. He made a choice, a hard one. Have a little empathy.”

He sniffed, not quite sure of his own emotions on the subject yet. He did know he was still mad at his former chauffeur and bodyguard. “I have empathy,” he snapped. “Not a lot, but some.”

“Talk to him when you’re ready, okay? I don’t want to feel like I’ve broken up the family. Speaking of family, how’s Steve?”

“Seems okay. Haven’t seen him much. He’ll be going with Bruce to NYU for the first couple of days, and then SHIELD will take over.”

“Sounds like a very good idea; Steve just exudes safety.” Her voice turned brisk. “Dinner with Frank is set for tomorrow night at _Carmine’s_. I left Steve a message, but I’m giving you the job of making certain he arrives, Tony.”

“Right, right. I’ll even check behind his ears.”

Pepper laughed. “You do that. See you tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

He hung up and stuffed the phone in his sweat pants pocket. Following Buzzie’s schedule, he moved to the end of the lab and put the mask of the nitrous oxide canister over his face, taking three long inhales between breaths. It did help with the headaches and the nausea, and especially the irritability that came with drinking less. Then he made his way upstairs to scrounge something to eat.

Steve was sitting at the table, making his way steadily through a pound cake and a gallon of milk. Rogers said that if he didn’t eat enough before he slept, even for the few hours that he needed to, his body would wake him up and demand food. _Talk about being a slave to your stomach._

Somebody usually left a couple of plates of leftovers around from dinner, and Tony pulled out one of these and threw it in the microwave. He grabbed a knife and fork, snatched a paper-towel from the roll on the counter, and when the meal was ready, carried it over to the table.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, until Tony’s hunger had been slightly appeased. “And what were you doing today?”

“Went walking in the Village and around the university buildings to get the lay of the land, find the quickest way out, things like that.”

Stark considered their strategy and bluntly asked, “Do you think there’ll be problems, outside of Ross?”

“No.” He tossed his napkin down, and sat back, looking a little tired and beautifully rumpled, in just sweat pants and a tee shirt. “Bruce has it under wraps. And as long as he keeps talking to the Hulk, they should be able to handle what a few thousand college kids can throw at them.”

“Good enough. Dinner tomorrow at _Carmine’s_ with me and Pep. Wear a suit,” Tony casually advised.

Steve narrowed his eyes at him and capped the milk. “Why?”

“Meeting Brad Franklin.”

“I don’t want—”

“Steve.” Stark lowered his voice into his reasonable, business tone. “We need to get a handle on this ‘hero’ thing. You have to become the public face of the Avengers; people will judge us based on how you behave as our leader. I’m in the public eye, but not in the way we want to be perceived from here on out. And more important: For your own sake, we need people to see that you and Cap are separate so that you can live a life of your own.”

Rogers analyzed that, his blue eyes thoughtful until they met his again, now with humor. “Pepper again, right?”

Tony laughed. “You didn’t think I was that deep, did you?”

Steve got up and put his things in the dishwasher, before rinsing the now-empty milk jug and tossing it in the recycling chute. “Maybe not when I first met you. But now . . . there’s a lot more to Tony Stark than the genius-playboy-philanthropist-hero.”

He flushed and focused on his food. “You’re sharper than I thought then, too. When you’re not being all adorably 1940, that is.”

“That’s interesting, because I sure feel like an idiot when I’m around you.”

“Ditto.”

“Whose room are we in tonight?” Steve asked, and Tony knew it was to break the intimate sense of quiet that had fallen between them.

“Let’s use yours for a change.”

“Okay,” he murmured and then gave a soft, “See you later,” and left Tony alone to his thoughts.

Which were all about him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce starts work; Steve fights with Natasha, has an interview of his own, and gets hit on.

Somewhere around six Steve would usually wake up from his comfortable position as the filling in a Bruce and Tony sleeping sandwich. He was often too hot then, damp and uncomfortable, but that was probably because he insisted on sleeping with his sweats on, rather than just briefs.

It was pouring down rain outside the windows, the wind whipping it loudly against the panes of glass. Determining that a run this morning would be more punishment than pleasure, he opted against it. Bruce would be going to NYU to start his job today; he wouldn’t get another chance to burn off some excess energy until they returned. Running a hand through his hair and pushing it back to its normal smooth lines, he headed to the gym that took up half the communal floor and was open for all of them to use. It had all the latest in exercise gear, Steve had noted when he’d first moved in, from bikes that mapped out routes, to mechanical dummies that would ‘score’ hits on vital organs, and even move its limbs in response.

But Steve wasn’t a complex kind of fighter and preferred to stick with heavy, speed, and double-side bags, with a focus on boxing. Natasha had violently insisted that he needed to learn Chinese and Japanese fighting styles, as well as the rhythmic moves of Brazilian capoeira. After her demonstration, he’d had to agree with her. She was an excellent if sharp-tongued teacher and stretched him until he was in pain from it, but he had to admit he felt lighter and more agile afterwards. This morning, he spent a good half-hour practicing before moving to the heavy bag for another half-hour before heading back to his room and getting dressed.

This time, he would be blending in, so he stuck with tan slacks and a tee shirt, covered by a white button-down. He wouldn’t be carrying any weapons; the shield kind of stuck out and couldn’t be covered by any conventional backpack. Its size alone would draw attention that Bruce didn’t need. There would be a standard black bulletproof SHIELD vehicle standing by, in contact through the mike hidden in Steve’s ear in the event they needed to evacuate Banner.

Going upstairs he began preparing breakfast, starting with coffee and smiling as the team began to arrive, trained like hunting dogs to a certain scent. As he pretty much expected, Banner was a train wreck, so nervous he stuttered, wringing his hands like he wanted to remove his skin altogether. Delivering his food, Steve leaned in. “Easy, Bruce,” he urged, his voice low as not to carry. “Focus on your work; let us worry about the rest.”

Banner’s eyes were a complex mixture of fear, terror, excitement, and satisfaction. “If you hadn’t been there last night, I wouldn’t have slept at all.”

Steve smiled. After Bruce had come to bed in Tony’s room, he was restless, turning and shuffling every minute or so. In desperation, Steve had finally locked Bruce into his arms, spooning him tightly, and rocking gently until he fell asleep. He’d done the same with Bucky a time or twelve, when nightmares would wake them in the wee hours of the morning. “Eat,” he urged.

“Feel like it’ll come right back up.”

He pushed forward Bruce’s tea and a few pieces of toast. “Just a little.”

The scientist acquiesced and began to nibble the bread. Steve turned back to the others, and continued cooking. Natasha and Clint ate near him, talking softly, just like it was any other morning. Tony shuffled in, his hair mussed, eyes bleary. Steve tucked a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, having learned that Tony pre-caffeine was uncoordinated and irritable. He accepted it with a sweet smile and a hushed, “You are a god.”

“No, that would be Thor.”

“Shut up, and don’t argue with your landlord.”

Steve chuckled and filled a plate. “Sir, yes, sir. Go eat,” he ordered low-voiced.

“I’m gonna get fat, Rogers,” Tony insisted, but did as he was told, settling next to Bruce and making him laugh with whatever he said. Steve didn’t try to listen in as he got his own breakfast, leaving enough behind in the event Thor and Jane showed up. Sometimes they did, sometimes not, but Steve knew that the demi-god would be hurt if there wasn’t food available for him when he rose.

With a minimum of fuss, Steve got Bruce in the red car and on the road, making it to NYU with a few minutes to spare.

Within minutes upon handing his paperwork to Yost, he’d been shown his tiny office, and was currently tucked into a lab with a half-dozen grad students, all of them gabbling in that foreign language known as physics. Steve, grabbing a chair from an office, settled down in the corner closest to the door, pulled out his drawing pad, and started a piece that would show Tony his buddy’s new space.

Other than a tour of the university after lunch, Bruce was either in his office, or the lab. Various curious and idle professors and administrators came by to meet him, and if they expected someone other than the soft-spoken, gentle Dr. Banner, they came away either pleased or surprised. Yost rolled his eyeballs at the bystanders, but didn’t interfere, other than to usher out the most egregiously nosy before Steve did.

As Rogers had expected, Bruce was nose deep in work when the clock hit five. “Come on, Bruce. Time to go.”

Banner looked up at him, his glasses smudged and perched on the end of his nose. “Hmm?”

Steve chuckled and gestured at his watch. “Time to go. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh, right.” Rising, Bruce scrabbled together some papers and a journal or two and tucked them into his messenger bag, which he tossed over his shoulder. He wasn’t _with_ Steve mentally, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, so Steve carefully tucked a hand under his elbow, and led him out. When the late afternoon sun hit them hard between the shoulders and back of their necks, Bruce twisted his head a few times, loosening muscles that had gotten tight from his reading position, and he smiled at Steve. “Sorry. I get all caught up and lose track of time.”

“Not a problem. But Tony has roped me into this dinner tonight, so. . . .” He trailed off.

“And you’d rather be lazing at home with a movie and popcorn?”

“Something like that.” He nodded as they arrived at the car, and Steve looked it over, to make certain that there weren’t any surprises, like a bomb or something ridiculous like that attached. While he hadn’t often done bodyguard work, when certain people came to the European theatre he had been called on to make certain that they left alive.

It was an energized Bruce Banner who made his way into the tower and to the communal floor to make tea. His team was there for him, especially Stark, who listened to Banner warble about the work they were doing at the college, and pointed at Steve. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten, Rogers. 7:30. Be here or I’ll come get you. With the _suit_ and I don’t mean the Brioni.”

Steve sighed. “See ya later, Bruce.”

The scientist barely paused for a breath to wave, and then continued the rapid-fire description of his day. Steve had to smile; it was great to see his friend so engaged, interested, and, dare it be said? Happy.

Now they only had to keep him that way.

He glared at the elevator wall as he made his way to his own apartment. He wouldn’t even have time for a half-way decent workout before he needed to get dressed, but he was going to take what time he had and rid himself of the stiffness in his back and legs. Thankfully, Natasha had beaten him to the gym and didn’t have any difficulties in kicking his ass for an hour or so. She was strong, yes, but it was her agility that gave him fits, plus the fact that he just didn’t like hitting women much.

And she knew it and used it against him, laughing in his face when he pulled a punch.

“I wish you were that gentle with me, Cap,” Clint taunted, as he appeared and perched himself on the basketball backboard, shooting an arrow at Steve periodically.

“Let me know . . . when you become a girl . . . Clint. We’ll talk.”

Tasha chuckled and her kick would have taken him between the legs if he hadn’t moved. She _hated_ that he treated her differently because she was a woman, but used it to her advantage, as she did everything else. It was only when Steve came after her, fought her as an enemy, that she was reduced to running away to find better position and a different strategy. Then, if he chose to, he would be able to beat her down to the ground and kill her.

Something in him didn’t always trust Natasha Romanoff, the former Soviet spy and assassin. He respected the cautious voice in the back of his mind that warned him she was dangerous. Meanwhile Steve would learn what he could from her, train with her, fight with her, but never quite turn his back on her.

He didn’t feel the same way about Clint. Though as talented a sniper as they came, and valuable at close-quarters fighting, he didn’t have the same feral intensity she did. Which, considering their history, was the only reason that the Black Widow was still alive to be an Avenger.

Distracted by his own thoughts, he realized he had inadvertently boxed Natasha in a tight corner, her expression hard and Widow’s Bite quite ready to give him a sting that would drop him on his back so she could deliver the _coup de grâce_. His vision gave him slight warning and his reflexes did the rest or Clint’s arrow would have cut his nose off. _A dangerous pair, these two._ He didn’t let go of Tasha, but pushed her into the wall hard, one hand taking her wrists to crush her bracelets, while the other caught her throat, and his legs locked hers down, his weight doing the rest.

He gave her a smile. “Uncle?”

 _“Je cède, capitaine_ ,” she replied in an aggrieved tone, then snapped, “Why don’t you fight like that all the time?” Her complaint was real, even if it was couched in soft, intimate tones.

He released her and stepped back, shrugging as he admitted, “Because I don’t need to.”

Clint gave a low, loud whistle at his response. “Ouch. Harsh.”

She ignored Clint, and narrowed her eyes at him, obviously not caring for his honesty. He could almost see her assessment of him change. “Soldier is just another word for killer, isn’t it, captain?” The words were whisper-soft but cut like razors, as she had intended them to.

He didn’t let his gaze drop, controlling his anger, looking her squarely in the eye. “I’ve killed. I’ve killed a lot of men — probably more than the both of you put together. I even got paid for it. But that’s where our similarities end.”

“Because you did it for the greater good?”

He got mad, bright-red mad, and his voice went hard. “Because if _I_ hadn’t, you and everyone you love would have been living under Hitler and his thugs. I was in Poland during the Occupation, saw the ghettoes of Warsaw, the concentration camps.” He took a breath and hissed, “I killed to spare anyone from having to exist like that again. And if I have nightmares, if I have blood on my hands that never washes away, I can live with it. Can you say the same?”

He turned away and walked down to the end of the gym in silence, his heart hammering, his ears buzzing with anger, the rage he felt sizzling in his blood. _Now_ he wanted to fight, but only Thor would be able to handle him at this level and he was with Jane, wandering through the city.

Steve went to his quarters feeling the need for a heavy-bag workout, but unwilling to go back downstairs. He knew Tasha’s game, knew she was testing him, probing for weaknesses she could exploit. It was the way she’d been trained, but he didn’t have to like it.

Glancing at the clock and releasing a silent curse, he slipped into a cold shower to cool himself off. He still wasn’t in the best of moods when he met Tony, but at least he didn’t want to kill anyone.

Stark glanced at him, taking in the custom-made navy suit with the blue and white Egyptian cotton shirt with French cuffs, bright blue silk tie, and dark blue dress shoes. He reached over and shot Steve’s cuffs, smiling when he saw the links he wore.

They had been a birthday present from Stark that Steve had found the box on his dresser when they’d gotten home from Arlington and he’d gone to change out of his uniform. When he’d opened it, he’d found two miniature versions of his shield, inlaid with sapphires, rubies, and diamonds, next to a card that said, “Happy 26th, Steve.” When he’d tried to thank the man the next day, Stark had been difficult about it, and pretended he had no idea what he was talking about.

“Do I pass muster?” Steve asked, turning in a circle with his arms out at his sides.

“You’ll do, I guess,” Tony told him, with a smirk, gesturing towards the elevator.

They took the limo tonight, Pepper having finally overridden Stark and replacing his former driver with a new one. Tony wasn’t quite entirely rude to the man, but he was hardly warm either. “Who are you?” he demanded abrasively.

“James Sheridan. People call me Sherry.”

“Well, I won’t.” He sounded appalled. “Makes you sound like a middle-aged cheerleader.”

Sheridan was maybe 50, Steve thought, silver-haired, calm, cool. The shift of his shoulders and the way he watched the movement around them told Rogers that the man had seen action somewhere. He didn’t look like much but he was wearing one gun in easy reach, and there were two more at his ankles. He was possibly carrying knives at his back, but they were harder to confirm.

“That’s fine, Mr. Stark,” Sheridan replied. He held the door without agitation, accepting Tony’s visual inspection with the kind of patience and aplomb that spoke of good training. He wasn’t dressed in anything fancy — a black suit that hid as much as it was designed to, unless you knew what you were looking for.

Happy Hogan had been fine as a friend, a chauffeur, but as a bodyguard in Rogers’ opinion, he had been sadly lacking. When Tony was with Sheridan, Steve felt it more likely that he’d be returned in one piece or the other guys either would be nursing deadly-serious wounds or requiring an undertaker. Pepper obviously wasn’t taking any chances with Tony’s life she could possibly prevent.

Tony gave an aggrieved grunt and slid into the limo with the grace of long practice. Steve followed, with a smile for the driver and a pat on the shoulder.

Tony played with his StarkPad as the car drove them uptown to Broadway between 91st and 92nd streets. As they walked in they met Pepper at the bar, alongside Brad Franklin, a tall, lanky silver-haired Texas man with striking hazel eyes and a handsome face. Tony hugged Pepper, and then embraced “Frank” as he was known to millions. Frank turned to Steve with an inquisitive, but warm smile, and they made their way upstairs. There was no one else but staff in the restaurant.

At his frown, Tony admitted, “Bought the place out for the night. Didn’t want to be mobbed.”

The idea of paying for the entire evening was so foreign to Steve’s experience he just stared for a long moment, then shut his mouth, and sat down.

He was quiet for the most part, letting Tony, Pepper, and Frank guide the conversation wherever they would.

“For God’s sake, Steve, say something!” Tony encouraged, after they’d finished their main course.

“I might, if I could get a world in edgewise.”

Pepper laughed, a loose, free sound that Rogers liked. “You tell him, Steve,” she encouraged. “Have you been looking for other volunteer opportunities? The kind where you won’t be incognito ninety stories high with no back-up?”

He smiled at her teasing. “Nope. Haven’t found anything dangerous enough to top that yet. Because you know I go out of my way to terrify you, Pepper.”

One hand went to her throat and she glared daggers at him. “Idiot. Dangling by your feet! You’re as bad as Tony.”

“What were you doing up there?” Frank asked, his voice gentle and casual, no trace of the correspondent obvious.

“Just wanted to help with the rebuilding after the Battle. I’d still like to help, but with everyone so interested in the Avengers, I can’t disguise myself well enough to be ignored anymore.”

“The price of fame, my friend,” Tony inserted, eating his meal and mostly talking with Pepper.

“I didn’t ask to be famous, Tony,” Steve reminded, losing a little of his appetite. “I’d like to be able to walk down the street without people clamoring for my autograph like I’m some film star.” It came out more of a grumble than he’d planned.

“You’re an icon, Steve, as Captain America,” Frank insisted, drawing his point with his forefinger in the tablecloth. “People want to know more about you: who you are when you take off the costume.”

Rogers bit his lip at the word and was silent for a long moment. He held the other man’s gaze. “When I was first changed, I wore a costume in a show that entertained crowds for war bond money. It didn’t last long and I’m not a performer anymore. I’m a soldier.”

“Unattached to any regular military unit.”

“No. I lead the Avengers _._ That’s my team, my unit.”

“And who is Steve Rogers outside of the uniform?”

“Just a guy from Brooklyn, who’s trying to find his way in a world that left him behind seventy years ago, a place where he belongs, just like everybody else.”

Frank wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back. “I think there’s a helluva lot more to you than that, Captain. And I’m just as curious as everybody else.”

Steve sighed. “And that’s the problem.”

“Why?”

“How can I tell you, or anyone, who I am when I don’t even really know yet? I knew who I was in 1943, but now? The same values don’t seem to matter.”

Frank nodded. “Okay, that’s fair. But, just for tonight, I’d like to borrow a few questions from a friend of mine, James Lipton. He uses them at the end of his interviews to gain deeper insight in the personality of the celebrity he’s talked with. Do you mind?”

Steve shook his head, and nodded at the waiter as his coffee was set down.

“Oh, this should be good,” Tony said, chuckling softly, rubbing his hands together. His eyes shone in the light from the candles on the table.

“What is your favorite word?”

Steve sat back and crossed his arms against his chest. “Hope.”

“What is your least favorite word?”

“Hate.”

“What turns you on?”

Steve gave Tony a questioning glance. _Sexually?_

His friend laughed. “No, not that. He means, what inspires you, gets you out of bed in the morning? Like me, it’s my work.”

“I don’t know how to answer that right now. In my old life, I would have answered, injustice. Now….” He shrugged.

“Okay, we’ll move on. What turns you off?”

Steve didn’t hurry through the questions. He gave them their due thought. “Brutality.”

“What sound or noise do you love?”

That made him smile. “Children laughing.”

“What sound or noise do you hate?”

He didn’t hesitate. “The whistle of bombs dropping.”

“What is your favorite curse word?”

“Hah. I’ve never heard him curse, Frank,” Tony crowed.

Steve nodded in agreement. “My dad occasionally used ‘damn,’ but I try not to curse.”

“Why not?”

“My mom said it was a sign of a poor vocabulary and would send me to the public library.”

The journalist chuckled. “What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?”

“Architect.”

“What profession would you not like to do?”

Rogers grimaced. “Butcher.”

“If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?”

That made him grin; he could picture it in his mind’s eye easily enough. “He’d say, ‘It’s about time you got here; everybody’s waiting!’”

Pepper leaned over and patted his hand. “See? Not so painful. Frank is good at this.”

Steve sighed; he still wasn’t sure. “How does this work?”

“Well, Pepper and I have gone through a couple of ideas. You’re not comfortable speaking for the cameras—”

“As my former acting career can attest.”

Stark snickered, threw a hand over his face, and looked through his fingers at him. “Oh my god, you were terrible!”

Steve gave him a lazy grin in response. “Thanks.”

“It’s okay, babycakes; you have other talents,” he teased, and Steve knew he meant his cooking.

Frank gave Steve a strange glance and quietly asked, “Are you involved? You and Tony?”

The question sat there for a thick hot minute before Tony spit out his drink with an explosive sound, and violently choked. Pepper burst into laughter and patted him on the back while Steve watched, waiting for his breathing to come back to normal. “Wrong pipe?” he asked, which only made Tony cough more and get up to head to the men’s room.

“So?” Frank asked, his eyes a little wide. “You and Tony?”

“No,” Steve replied, feeling Pepper’s gaze on him like a touch. “I’m not dating anyone right now.” It was awkward talking about Tony with her there.

“But dating a man wouldn’t bother you?”

He shrugged, aware his mother would have smacked him for it. “No.”

“Wasn’t homosexuality frowned on in the 40’s?”

He released a breath and wondered how this guy could talk about it with a woman two feet away from him. “Some people thought it was wrong, a sin against God. For me, I don’t define anyone by who they’re attracted to. I certainly wouldn’t have tossed anybody out of the unit because of it, that’s for sure.”

“Are you saying that one or more of the Howling Commandos was gay?”

Steve gave Frank a long, assessing look, uncertain whether he was pleased or irritated that he didn’t flinch. “Listen, Mr. Franklin. If that’s the way your interview will be conducted, then it won’t happen at all. I have no desire or intention of creating some sort of sex scandal about men who fought, bled, and died in a war that’s only a memory to you so you can gain ratings, whatever they are.”

“Wait, wait,” Frank asked, an apology written across his face. “This is just two guys talking. Nothing we say here will be included in my interview, I swear on my mother’s life.”

He looked at Pepper.

“Yes, she’s still alive.”

His jaw locked and released a few times, but he remained sitting. Tony’s arrival broke the tension and he caught Steve’s eyes. “What happened? Did you out yourself when I was indisposed?”

“ _Out myself?_ ” Steve muttered. “What are you talking about?”

“No, Tony,” Pepper advised him, laughing.

The group broke up after confirming the date and location of the interview. It would be a day-long event overseen by Pepper, with SHIELD’s and Steve’s approval required before it would be aired.

At the restaurant door, Frank handed Steve his business card as Tony walked Pepper out to her taxi. He held onto Steve’s hand a little too long, giving him an enticing smile, as his thumb rubbed circles into his skin. “You sure you’re not Tony’s latest love? I know Pepper dropped him like a hot rock because he became an Avenger. Maybe there was another reason, too, hmm, babycakes?”

Steve shook his head, grinning at the idea. _Like Tony Stark, who could have anyone he wanted, would look at me!_

“I only say anything because I know what it’s like.” Frank nodded, but there was a definite bitterness to his tone that couldn’t be disguised. He continued to speak, but Steve barely listened as he poured out his apparent loathing for Tony Stark and why he felt that way. “He’s all hearts and flowers in the beginning, until he gets what he wants — but just be warned, it won’t last. I had three weeks of bliss, but then he flitted off to Malibu. Didn’t return my calls, my texts . . . he just disappeared from my life, left me in the lurch, never to be seen again.” He brushed a piece of imaginary lint off of Steve’s shoulder. “I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

“It won’t,” Steve insisted, not liking his comments about Tony. Franklin was willing to use Tony to get what he wanted — wasn’t that exactly what he was condemning Stark for?

“Well, when it happens, give me a call. We can see where it leads us.” He continued talking, but his last comment was so appalling, Steve didn’t immediately process it. And then the reporter was gone, striding off into the night without another word.

“Good night,” he belatedly said, and then moved off, grabbing Tony’s arm and directing him towards their limo with a little too much enthusiasm.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked diffidently, once they were heading to midtown, his focus on his pad.

“Is there anyone in this town you haven’t—” _Fucked_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t.

Tony sat back and continued to play his fingers across the screen, unruffled by Steve’s annoyance. “Haven’t _what_ , Steve? Go ahead, say it. The world won’t end.”

“You know what I was about to say, so I don’t need to.” He ran a hand through his hair and loosened his tie. “Jesus, Tony, the man _hates_ you. He smiles to your face, but he has nothing good to say behind your back. Why would you hand me over to that _shark_?”

“First off, it’s business; strange bedfellows and all that. Secondly, I thought he had enough brains to let go of the past. And thirdly,” he continued, his voice getting hot, “I’m not handing you over to anyone.”

Steve fought his anger down and he grit out, “He hasn’t let go of it, Tony. Not by a long shot.”

“Steve, for God’s sake, it’s just an interview.”

He knew Stark thought he was overreacting, but it didn’t matter. “I’m still calling Pepper in the morning and cancelling it.”

“Because he doesn’t like me? If everybody who didn’t like me refused to do business, nothing would get done,” Stark argued, his expression mirroring his irritation.

Steve had no intention of explaining why. It was bad enough it was ringing in his ears.

“You’re going to be stubborn about this, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Because he hit on you? I know he did, Steve; I saw him touch you.”

“I don’t care about that!”

“You don’t?” His voice was surprised. He visibly interrupted himself and went back to the topic. “Then why? Come on, tell me!”

“All right, you want to know so bad? I’ll tell you. He eats the food you paid for, accepts the advantages you would give him, and then insults you behind your back to someone he _thought_ was your lover. No.” He crossed his arms and set his jaw. “I wouldn’t be bothered giving him the time of day now, nevermind an exclusive interview. Find someone else.”

“I don’t understand. Are you mad because he thought we were fucking?”

Steve winced at the phrasing, but didn’t refute the content. “I don’t care about that, Tony.” He gave a harsh laugh. “All I could think about when he asked was that you have much better prospects than me out there.”

There was a pause. “That’s not true.” Tony’s voice had become far more sober than usual.

“I think it is.”

Stark pushed that away as though it were irrelevant. “What other _bon mots_ did he drop? Brad always likes to get the last word in.”

Steve replied with a laugh of derision. “That he didn’t mind picking up your cast-offs because they took up most of the known world anyway. And he gave me his card to call him when it happened.”

Stark stilled, his body going stiff. His chocolate eyes blazed in the passing streetlights, the pupils retracting to tiny points. “He actually _said_ that?”

“Yeah.”

Tony’s mouth dropped open, and he laughed but it held no humor. “Son of a bitch!”

“It’s no big deal, Tony.”

“Oh, now there, my Captain, you’re wrong.” His voice had gone flat with rage. “It’s one thing to make noise about me, but it’s an entirely different issue when he does it about you.” With jerky gestures, he picked up his phone and made a call.

“Hi, Peter, it’s Tony Stark.”

Steve couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation, only Tony’s.

“Well, your boy has done it again. He screwed the pooch with Steve Rogers tonight and now Cap refuses to do the interview with him. Nope, he won’t budge. No, I won’t repeat what Brad had to say, but you know what he’s like. No, I won’t try to make Steve do it. No…. No…. Have _you_ ever tried to impose on a national icon, Pete? We’ll be shopping around for another — Barbara? You think she’d do it? I thought she was retired. . . . Well, if we could get her, sure! Steve would love her. Okay, let Pep know.”

He pulled it away to re-dial.

“Hey, listen, the Franklin interview is off. No, Pep . . . _no!_ The bastard insulted Steve to his face, after dragging me through the mud, which you know I couldn’t care less about. Pete Warner, you know, the guy at NBC, is going to try and get Barbara. Yeah, I thought she was retired too, but — no, you don’t need to call Brad. It will be my pleasure to explain it to him. No, Steve’s okay; he’s more pissed that Frank insulted _me_ , can you believe it?” Tony laughed. He gave Steve a fond glance and patted his leg. “He’s sitting here seething in righteous indignation. . . . He’s my Cap; I can make fun of him if I want to.” Tony laughed again. “Good night, Pep.”

He hung up with a smile.

“You do that a lot when you talk to her.”

“What?”

“Smile.”

“Yeah, well, I do it when I talk to you, too. You’re just too busy to notice.”

Steve shook his head, disagreeing. “Barbara?”

“Barbara Warner. She’s interviewed everybody important: presidents, actors, athletes, business-people. If you’re a name that people or Barbara would be interested in, she’s done a segment on them.”

“You?”

“Yeah. After Obie—,” Tony cleared his throat. “I mean after I changed the direction of the company. She’s good; does her research. In my opinion, she’s the first woman of journalism. Should’ve thought of her before Frank,” he admitted with a shrug. “Should have thought of anyone before him; where was my brain?” He smacked himself in the forehead.

“Focusing on more important things,” Steve soothed. “Will he get into trouble?”

“Hell, yes. I’ll make sure of it. Put the word out that he’s on my shit list and his promotion dollars and ad revenues will dry up like the Oklahoma dust bowl.”

“And that’s bad, right?’

“Means he won’t make any money off of his show. Or rather, the network that runs it won’t. And if that continues, they’ll take him off the air until his contract runs out.”

“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

Tony’s eyes went wide with anger. “No, I don’t. I think it’s what anyone should get when they insult you.”

Steve threw his hands in the air. “I _told_ you that didn’t bother me. Colonel Phillips called me a chorus girl.” He frowned. “More than once, actually.”

“I really love that you’re mad over what he said about me; I’m furious that he was rude to you.” Tony stopped, blinked, and replied, “Wait, what?”

“A chorus girl,” Steve affirmed with a grin. “He didn’t know me very well at the time. I can’t dance.”

“Even so, you do have good legs,” Tony teased.

“Thanks,” he replied, tone dry. “I appreciate the compliment.”

 

Steve was ready for a few hours’ sleep when he left the elevator and proceeded down the hall to his apartment. His head came up when he saw he wasn’t alone in the hallway.

Tasha was sitting on the floor, her knees tucked up to her chest, her head turned his way, coming out of a light doze. She was in a pair of pajamas, loose, comfortable-looking and casual. Her body was entirely covered; no seduction was intended, though Steve pretty much figured that Natasha Romanoff could entice any man with just her voice threading through his ears, sultry and deep.

He sat down across the hall from her, not saying anything, folding up his tie and slipping it into his jacket pocket. He took that off too and laid it aside.

“I came here to apologize.”

Steve waited some more.

She let out an aggrieved sigh. “I’m sorry I was rude.”

“It would mean more if I knew when you were telling the truth.”

“You don’t trust me, do you?” She wore no make-up and appeared younger and somehow more innocent.

He looked away for a moment, trying to figure how to say what he really meant, and then just said, “No. You’re a spy. I know you’ve worn lots of names and faces, had to be people you’re really not to get the job done. I just don’t know who _you_ are and if this face is the real one.”

She canted her head at him and then admitted, “I can understand that.” She sighed and looked away. “I call them roles, the people that I have to be for the job. Some of them I even like.”

“Is this, being an Avenger, a role to you?”

“No.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was before Clint got taken by Loki, or Phil nearly died, and the world was attacked by aliens.” She quirked a brow. “That . . . was completely outside of my experience.”

Steve nodded. “Mine, too.”

“So how do we get past this?”

He considered that for a while, then said, “I’ll ask you three questions. Answer them honestly, so that I can learn how to gauge when you’re lying.”

Her grin told him it would be a waste of time. “I wouldn’t be a very good spy if you could do that.”

He shrugged. “We can try it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll approach it from another direction.”

“Okay. I’m game. Go ahead.”

“Is Natasha your birth name?”

Her eyelids flickered slightly; whether she was giving him a “tell” on purpose, he didn’t know.

“No. The child I was ceased to exist when my parents died and I was taken to Department X. Over the years, I was repeatedly brainwashed.” She waved a hand. “All of this was probably in the information you were given.”

Steve shook his head, but smiled a little. “They always seem to leave out the important parts.”

“The name that’s on all my paperwork is the one I’ve chosen: Natalia Alianovna Romanoff.”

“Don’t Russians differentiate surnames based on gender?”

“ _Da_ , but I was making a point with Fury at the time. It should be Romanova, but the difference hardly matters here.”

“How old are you?”

“I was born sometime around 1975. You can do the math.”

He whistled. “It doesn’t show. But then, it wouldn’t.”

“No, the serum takes care of little things, like aging.”

Steve ducked his head, and added, “Did you know . . . I mean, about the not having children thing?”

There was no reaction on her face; it was a studied blank. “I was told. At the time it didn’t much matter.”

“Erskine told me it was a possibility. No one given the serum could.”

She smiled a little sadly. “Considering our lives . . . I don’t think I’m much of a role model for a child.”

He let that go. What she’d done before she’d become a member of his team was immaterial now. “Tell me something you regret.”

“Hmm. That’s a long list.”

Steve settled a little more loosely against the wall at his back. “Take your time.”

“Okay.” After a few minutes, she admitted, “I regret saying anything to Bruce that was a lie. Or that he would perceive as a lie.”

“Did you think he would kill you on the helicarrier?”

Her gaze was blue fire. “Think? No. When something that primal, that brutal, wants to kill you, _you_ _know it._ ” She closed her eyes, her arms locking tight around her legs, and murmured,” I felt Death more clearly than I ever have in my life.” Her chest rose and fell with breaths that she had to fight to take. “When Thor hit him, he was only inches away from reducing me to a small, wet, red and black smear.”

 _It was the complete truth_ , he realized. “I’m sorry you were in that position,” Steve confessed. “None of us realized what was happening with Loki’s scepter, and then the ship exploded. There was no time to do anything but damage control.”

“We had no chance to make a strategy; Loki was pulling all the strings. But we still came out on top.” She took a moment and then blurted, “Answer a question for me?”

“If I can.”

“Is _this_ real?” She gestured at him. “You? Steve, the sweet, adorable, earnest soldier?”

“I don’t have any roles to play,” he replied softly. “This is me, who I am, all the time.”

“Lie to me, once, just so I know what it’s like.”

He chuckled at the idea. “Okay, that’s fair. Let’s see.” He tried to change his voice, to add intensity and passion. “I _love_ rap music.”

She laughed. “You can’t lie for shit, Steve.”

He laughed, too. “I know. Never could. Bucky always teases — teased the hell out of me about it.”

“You forget sometimes? That they’re gone and you’re here?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Not very often, but occasionally. Go ahead, I can tell you have another question in there.”

“Are you sleeping with Tony and Bruce?”

“Yeah.”

She blinked and he knew he’d startled her.

“We’re _sleeping_ together,” he repeated. “We’re not doing, y’know, anything else.”

Her expression became confused. “Oh. Why?”

“To which question?”

She laughed. “Why are you sleeping with them?”

He shook his head. “That I can’t tell you without betraying a confidence.” Steve slid his way up the wall, and watched Natasha do the same. “Good night.”

“Night, Steve.”

He watched her walk to the elevator, a small figure, but he knew just how much power she carried. And now, he had a little more of an idea about her pain, too.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can never escape your past.

By the end of the first week, Bruce felt like he’d been at NYU for at least a month. His work in the Center was fascinating, but more than that, it gave him dozens of ideas for projects. He’d pitched a few to Sven that Friday.

The big Swede’s eyes lit up as Bruce outlined the first, then the second project he wanted to move forward on. “I can do the work at my lab in the tower; I’m sure Tony won’t mind grad students hanging around . . . well, once they clear the umpteen security checks, that is. What do you think?” When he was done, he wrapped his arms around himself and waited for his boss’ response.

“I think I can pretty much let you work on what you want, Bruce,” Sven admitted, grinning. “Keep in mind that one of those zillion or so pages you signed when you took the job indicates that the university gets a share of whatever you patent.”

Bruce waved that away. “That’s not important. I do, however, need the syllabi for the classes you want me to teach, and copies of the textbooks you planned for me to use.”

Sven dug around his desk, lifting piles of this and that, before unearthing two syllabi and handing them over. He also leaned over and pulled up two large textbooks and plopped them in the middle of his desk. “Enjoy.”

Bruce chuckled. “I like teaching,” he admitted. “I even usually like my students.”

“There’s a certain level of cut-throat among the grad students,” Yost admitted, “but most of them are good kids.”

He picked up the materials. “We were once those kids.”

“Hmm, yes. Well, I was. You were always on another level of the stratosphere.” There was no trace of jealousy in the man’s voice, but Bruce flushed anyway and shook his head; he wasn’t comfortable with compliments.

“I should go; Steve’s waiting.”

“So he won’t be joining you next week?”

“No. SHIELD agents will handle security from here on out.”

Yost chuckled. “There isn’t a woman on this campus that won’t be devastated at losing him. Even if they don’t know who he is, they think he’s . . . well, I won’t repeat what some of them said. Made _my_ ears burn.”

Bruce chuckled. He could well imagine what was said; God knew he’d thought of Steve too often in his dreams to ignore his own attraction. “That’s Steve for you. See you Monday.”

“Oh, draw up a new schedule for when you’ll be at home and working, okay? Just so I know when to expect you.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. He could hear the Other Guy snarling a little, too. “Are you keeping an eye on me, Sven?”

“I am. Got to protect my investment,” he said, with just enough practicality in his tone to make Banner settle. His green alter-ego grunted in uncertainty, but calmed when Bruce did.

He nodded. “Okay, then. Have a good weekend.”

Bruce went back to his office and grabbed a couple of things off his desk, tucked the papers and syllabi into his bag, and hefted the textbooks into his arms. Steve offered to take them, but Bruce didn’t mind carrying them. It was probably past time that he wrote one of his own, but he hated the idea of taking time away from experimental work to do it. He was saying as much when his body turned slightly, attuned to a shape, a smell, a sense of someone. . . .

As he walked down the last few steps of the Meyer building, Steve trailing a little behind him, his body was on auto-pilot, walking towards the one person in the world he knew he loved without reservation.

Betty Ross-Sampson stood at the bottom of the staircase, and as he took her into his arms, his smile fell into one of relief and satisfaction. “Hi,” he said when he pulled back.

“Hi,” she replied, her voice husky from unshed tears deep in her blue, blue eyes. To him, she would always be the most beautiful girl in the world.

They didn’t speak for a long while, just stared at each other, communicating in a wordless empathy that they’d used for years. Steve was a distant presence.

“How was the wedding?” he asked with a smile, trying not to hurt as he said it.

She gave him a shy smile, and he knew that she was very happy. “Lovely, even with daddy roaming around like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and snapping at Mal every chance he got.”

“Never did like your choice in men, did he?”

Her shrug was full of other words, other feelings. “And you? You’re okay?”

“We’re fine. Living with Stark, working here, letting the Other Guy out for the occasional smashing . . . it’s good. Better than it’s been in a long time.”

**Betty . . . ours?**

_No, Big Guy. She belongs to someone else now._

That left a big, discontented hole in his heart, and he could feel the Other Guy’s anger and hurt. **Hulk smash someone else.**

He raised a hand. “Give me a minute. The Other Guy wants to chat.”

Her eyes widened. “He talks now?”

“Incessantly.”

 **Betty ours,** he almost whined.

_Betty’s our friend now. Only our friend._

**Smells different.**

_Different how? Okay, we’ll talk about that later. Can I get back to the pretty girl now?_

**Don’t like ‘someone else.’**

_That makes two of us._

He refocused on Betty and gave her a wry grin. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I want to hear all about it.” She linked her arm into his. “Coffee?”

“Coffee. Oh, sorry, Steve.” He realized he’d ignored the man completely in his happiness at seeing Betty. “Steve, this is Betty Ross-Sampson. Betty, Steve Rogers.”

Steve smiled and gently shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Betty just about danced on her toes in excitement. “You’re Captain America!”

Rogers flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, come on, let’s get some coffee. And donuts! Is there a Dunkin’ Donuts near here?”

Bruce chuckled and admitted, “Would I work here if there weren’t?”

 

He wasn’t quite sure how he felt that night as he settled behind his desk at his lab in Avengers Tower. Steve had hovered since they’d arrived home, after unsuccessfully trying to get him to talk about Betty, her marriage, or anything. He was a good guy, kind, generous, and he obviously wanted to help, but Bruce himself didn’t quite know how he felt right now.

From the donut shop, they’d gone to dinner at a small Italian place that Steve frequented in Little Italy. Tony had introduced him to it, and he’d liked it so much, he kept going back. It was one of those old family places with a celebrity clientele and a year-long waiting list. But Steve was always welcomed and given a table; apparently he’d served with their father, and he’d had nothing but nice things to say about the young soldier.

Steve, a gentleman to his fingertips, got them the table, and then finding there was something he’d forgotten to do, had asked to have his food wrapped up. He probably ate it in the car, just to give them some privacy. Bruce flushed, but didn’t argue with him.

They’d talked, and talked, until the coffee ran out and the restaurant closed. Steve waited outside in the car, his gaze on the neighborhood and on his StarkPad at the same time.

“What are you reading?” Bruce asked, as they got into the car.

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_.”

“Ah, a classic. How do you like it?’

“It’s really good. Don’t want to put it down.”

Betty smiled, leaning over their shoulders from the backseat. “The definition of a great book.”

They had driven her home to the apartment she shared with her husband near Columbia University, and then came back.

Now, sitting at his desk, he pulled out one of his favorite pictures of Betty. She’d been lying on her stomach in Bruce’s bed in his shirt, kicking up her heels and laughing at something he’d said as he’d held the camera. His heart hurt and he rubbed it absently.

She was happy, that much was obvious. Her work at Columbia and her marriage both suited her. Her relationship with her father was still rocky and probably always would be. Betty couldn’t find it in herself to forgive him, not just for what he’d done to Bruce, but for being so narrow-minded about their commitment to each other.

**Not like Banner hurt. Heart hurt.**

_I know. I don’t either. But this is what she wants._

**Hmph. Betty smell funny.**

_It’s probably her husband you smell. Let it go, alright? We’ll be okay._

When his alter ego settled back down, he looked at the clock. Certain he wouldn’t find sleep tonight no matter how he tried, Bruce picked his bag up off the floor and removed the classwork items. Sorting them, he began reviewing the syllabi that Sven had given him, along with the former final exams of both classes.

By dawn, he had re-created the syllabi to add more excitement to what could sometimes be sadly generic, and was debating various ideas for the graduate lecture class. Cracking his neck and rising from his chair he decided to go and get a few hours’ sleep before spending the rest of the weekend in his lab.

“Jarvis? Where are the guys?”

“Captain Rogers’ apartment, sir.”

He got into the elevator and hit the button for the 75th floor, rubbing a hand over the back of his stiff neck. Steve would probably already be awake; his internal clock was set for 6 a.m. and he liked to exercise when he got out of bed.

Surprisingly, he was still asleep when Bruce wandered in and shucked off his clothes. Tony was there too, his face tucked neatly into Steve’s neck, one arm encircling the trim waist, his leg curled around Steve’s. Rogers lifted one lid, saw him, and closed it, opening his left arm so that Bruce could curl around it as he liked.

He tucked in, pulling up the blanket to his waist, and crumpling up the pillow, leaving Steve’s arm under his neck.

Steve smelled like spring rain, his own scent overpowering the soap he used. He was wearing his usual sweat pants and a tee shirt, the only skin Bruce could feel that of his arm against his neck. Banner was not one who cared about what he wore; his briefs were all he ever left on for bed and only when he wasn’t sleeping alone.

The three of them had become quite relaxed about this odd arrangement. And if truth be told, he and Tony were getting more rest than either of them had probably known in decades. They still worked too long and too hard, but when they fell into bed there was no doubt they would sleep. Steve Rogers acted as a magnet for both of them, and he was too much of a genuine good guy to push them off when he could offer the slightest comfort. Bruce only hoped that they gave as much back to him. He hadn’t had any further nightmares of the drowning, but he had been restive a time or two and they’d been able to soothe him back to sleep.

Steve’s breathing was slow and regular and unable to resist the draw of sleep, his dreams took him back to the days when he and Betty were together and happy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve considers his future.

Tony didn’t want to admit to himself how much better he felt now that he’d cut his drinking down. Buzzie was calling often, sending nurses to take blood, being very inconspicuous physically, but constantly speaking with him through calls and texts, insisting on being updated on his condition. He wasn’t going through the DT’s or anything like that, and was able to work while he detoxed. Some days he wanted to go right off the wagon, wanted to wallow in bourbon until he puked the stuff up, anything that would smother the pain. But his innate stubbornness refused to let the weakness win.

He wasn’t good at dealing with his own pain. For anyone else’s, he would act the fool or distract them with humor and gifts, but those tactics didn’t work on him.

He’d told himself that he drank to handle insurmountable grief, but he’d been doing it before his parents died, before Obie had manipulated him, before he’d had him kidnapped, savaged, maimed, and near-assassinated . . . before the man he thought of as a father had reached into his chest and removed his lifeline, only too aware that the loss would kill him.

He didn’t always _see_ the people he loved, couldn’t analyze their real motivations if they were close to him, and never recognized their betrayal. Howard, Obie, and even Pepper and Happy, in a sense, had hurt and broken his trust — older, wiser, and far more cynical, booze helped with being a mental giant in a world full of pygmies, and the frustration of knowing that his circle was circumscribed to only a few that he could turn his back on.

He shook his head and turned it back to the chemical evaluation he was conducting on a particular polymer he was studying. But the memories wouldn’t leave.

After he and Pepper had broken up, both of them in tears and anguish, Tony had shut down for a while. She had gone to the Malibu house and they gave each other space, or as much as they could, given that Pepper was CEO of Tony’s company. Without the booze, he felt the loss of that relationship now, but knew as well that she couldn’t have gone on the way they had been. Pepper couldn’t handle the danger that he willingly placed himself in and refused to be held emotionally hostage to his need to be a hero. It was all reasonable and understandable, but it still hurt. Their return to ‘friendship’ had been awkward, but they had finally found a middle ground where they could remain ‘family’ and not be involved.

Happy’s decision to follow Pepper and work for her was a nagging sting. He had hired the former champion boxer when he’d been low, so low that he’d been sweeping and cleaning at the decrepit gym where he had once trained as a middleweight contender. Granted, Tony had been drunk when he’d hired him, but they had been friends for twenty years now, and his decision to go with Pepper was a hard one to process. But again, Happy wasn’t able to handle Tony’s life anymore.

Their self-protection meant they had to leave his life, or at least, be less attached.

That, more than anything else, was the reason he had opened his home to the Avengers. He wasn’t built to live alone anymore. He lied to himself a lot; he could admit to that, but he needed people around at this time of his life. He _needed_ them, and he would work hard to keep them close. If that meant building new places for them to work out, or an archery range for Clint, a bigger lab for Bruce, it didn’t matter.

Tony Stark, genius, philanthropist, and hero . . . _needed_. He wrote off the playboy image; he was too old for that shit anymore, it came too easily, and it meant nothing. Frank’s comment to Steve still burned; not so much because of what it said about Tony -- he didn’t give a flying fuck about that. But for someone to even consider that Steve Rogers was the sort of guy you loved and _left_ made Stark angrier than even _Bruce_ had ever gotten. No one could diss Steve. That was just the way it was and Brad would learn that to his everlasting regret.

It was a little disconcerting for him to realize just how quickly both Bruce and Steve had become family. The others weren’t quite there yet, though Agent was on the border of that group. As much as Tony knew he was becoming even more skeptical and careful about those he let in, he couldn’t help it. His defenses were raised higher than they ever had been before because he didn’t know if he could stand another betrayal of the magnitude of Stane and survive it.

He sighed and pushed away the project, pulling up another. This one made him smile.

Steve was so far behind the cultural knowledge curve that his well-hidden bewilderment made Tony ache. He worked and finished the first installment of the “Rogers Assimilation Plan-A” and programmed Jarvis when to play it. Smiling, he yawned and stretched, before cracking his knuckles over his keyboard, and began a file for “RAP-B.”

 

Steve had finished breakfast and was coming into his apartment when Jarvis called him. A large screen slid down from the ceiling and flickered to life, Tony’s voice leading him in.

“Hey, Steve. Listen, pal, I know that getting used to this century is tough. So I thought I’d put together a little . . . refresher on important issues that would help you understand what people are talking about. I’ll be sending them to you every couple of days, so you have time to really absorb the material they contain. All right, J, hit it!”

Tony’s face dissolved off the screen and what followed it was a lesson on agriculture from the 1930’s until today. It discussed farmers, farm machinery and technology, crops and livestock, transportation, trade and development, life on the farm, farm organizations and movements, and ended with government programs and policy by decade.

Sitting on the couch, he was completely fascinated for the two hours that it played. Occasionally Steve stopped the video to replay a more interesting section, which was read in Jarvis’ cool, wry tones. He had always loved history; this was a great method to learn about the important things he had missed.

When it was completed, Jarvis stored it, so he could access it again if he wanted to. Steve sat and stared blankly ahead as the screen went dark and thought, _Tony took time and effort to put this together for me._ Rather than feel foolish or stupid, that made Steve feel . . . wanted. Cared for. That the creative, brilliant engineer who had umpteen projects waiting on him would take the time to _teach him_ , meant so much. His throat went tight and tears gathered in his eyes. He clutched his arms tightly, fighting the emotion down.

Stark wasn’t one for words other than the witty and cynical type. He could lash out at a moment’s notice, go for the jugular in sentences so sharp they cut like a scalpel and bled slowly for a long time after, sore and tender to the touch. Steve had felt that. And to counter that aspect, there were myriad other sides to the man, like when he’d essentially rebuilt Steve’s suit after the Chitauri disaster, given him a home, given him friendship. Oh, they could still fight like weasels, too. But beneath that was respect. Like the issue with Brad Franklin — Tony hadn’t been mad that Franklin had been rude about _him_ , but he was enraged that the reporter had projected his pathetic self-image onto Steve.

If he tried to thank Stark verbally, Tony’d get all prickly and difficult to deal with. He’d have to accept his gift in silence, which was the way Tony preferred his friends to behave to his overly-generous gifts. No fuss, no bother, no emotional responses or gratitude. He didn’t have much; no one did, compared to Stark, but he did have a few talents besides slinging a shield, and maybe he could use those to let Tony know just how much this meant to him.

He spent a couple of hours working on ideas before finalizing one. He’d work on it over the next few days until it was what nearer to what he wanted.

Whatever else Tony’s lessons were, they were a reminder that he needed to be out in the world, having a life outside of “Cap”. He had interests, a desire to be around people, learning, doing . . . he’d been in hiding long enough.

_But what do I want to do? Here, in this century? Who could I be?_

The answer was instantaneous: anyone. There was nothing to hold him back.

His work with the Avengers seemed to be a constant. Who knew whether that would change, but Steve doubted it. There was always another foe, another guy who wanted to prove that he was better than the rest. The world _was_ stranger than he knew, as Fury had proven. Ten bucks had been a small price to pay to be in the center of it, in the middle of the action, doing what he did best.

Standing up, he retrieved the StarkPad that Tony had given him, and went to its search “engine” icon. He typed in “volunteer opportunities” and sat back to see what it would come up with. It came back with 22 million results.

22 million.

He shook his head and began picking the first site apart to learn if it held what he wanted. Then he backtracked and added “kids.”

Now he was cooking. He created an account with New York Cares, specifically wanting to work with kids in the Brooklyn area.

On a whim, Steve looked at architectural programs. He’d never considered that he would ever be able to have the money required for the classes, but his life had changed. The army had done right by him. His back-pay was a considerable amount; he was a millionaire. Right now, it was sitting in a Bank of America checking account, because he didn’t know what to do with it all. Considering Coulson was injured, that left dealing with Sitwell as liaison to find a financial advisor. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with asking his advice.

He could always ask Tony, but nearly two million dollars, while a lot of money to Steve, probably was less than Tony paid for maintenance for his cars in a year. It would seem like pocket change to the billionaire and it was all Steve had. While Steve admired Stark immensely and thought he was the smartest and most creative man he’d ever met, his ideas about money were . . . unusual, to say the least.

SHIELD only paid Clint and Natasha; Steve wasn’t active army, so he was essentially unemployed. He’d need to get a job doing _something_ , but what could wait a while, until he figured out his next steps. He didn’t pay rent anymore and Tony had given him a, a sweet Harley Softboy Slim to replace the 1942 WLA model he’d used in the war. Howard had donated one of Steve’s former bikes to the Harley Davidson museum in Milwaukee, and though they had offered to return it to him, Mabel was a little too heavy even without munitions for general street riding.

Glancing back at the page he was viewing, he clicked on ‘Apply’ and followed the directions for the NY Institute of Technology.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday picnic in the park with Starman, Tinman, and a Hulk.

On a Sunday morning, Bruce had been chivvied out of bed by Tony and tossed into the shower without explanation. Steve had made breakfast, but he wasn’t allowed to sit and enjoy a third cup of tea. Instead, he was hustled into a waiting Quinjet and flown away from the Tower. Clint gave him a smile and a wave from the front seat. He was dressed casually, so whatever this was, it wasn’t official.

He crossed his arms and looked at the men on either side of him, slipping on the earphones to protect his hearing. “So? What’s so important I can’t sleep in on a Sunday?”

“You have a date,” Tony replied, his attention diverted by whatever was being transmitted to his StarkPad. With a smile of satisfaction, Stark scribbled his signature on the touch plate and put it away. He traded glances with Steve. “Done.”

“All right. Enough mystery. Where are we going?”

“To a recent Stark purchase in the Adirondacks. We thought it would be good for Big Green to get out of the house for a while.”

“We? We who?”

Steve chuckled. “Even if he does decide to take a walk off the leash, the land that Tony just bought should be enough to keep him busy.”

Stark thrust himself forward and gave directions to the pilot. Clint, almost hidden beneath the helmet nodded, made a few adjustments to his instruments, and banked.

“You know once I’m relegated to a carry-on, he’s in charge.”

Both of them nodded, Tony rolling his eyes.

 **Out?** The voice rumbled in his head.

 _Seems so_ , Bruce admitted. _It’s a pretty day. Want to take a walk?_

**Fight?**

_No. There’s nothing to hurt us where we’re going, I don’t think._ He noticed the huge hamper of food that took up most of the available space at the rear of the Quinjet. _Maybe just a picnic._

He could feel the Other’s Guy’s suspicion, but didn’t give in to it. Steve and Tony were there to protect them. Tony carried his briefcase suit, and beneath his casual clothes, he was certain Steve was wearing his uniform. The shield was at his side, sitting on its edge.

They landed in the remnants of a former summer camp, its facilities worn and faded with time and weather. A dock rusted over a huge, quiet lake, surrounded by woodlands, green and peaceful. On either side were large meadows, covered in sunshine and flowers. Further back were sagging dormitory cabins, the kitchen and dining hall, and an office building. All had seen better days.

They exited the ‘jet while the Steve and Clint removed the bags and boxes. Tony took a look around and nodded. “Bucolic. Barf.”

Bruce grinned at him and stretched. “Where do you want me?”

“How about that field over there?” Steve offered.

_Ready?_

A grunt was the only reply he received. The change was almost instantaneous when he didn’t fight it, the Hulk emerging organically and painlessly from his own skin. From this position, he couldn’t control the huge body without an enormous expenditure of energy, and his awareness was lethargic and mottled with oblivion, a picture postcard of events stored in his psyche to be remembered later. He settled back into the comfortable darkness, and let the Other Guy interact with their friends and teammates however he would.

When he returned hours later, he was lying in a green field, the sun leaning towards late afternoon, his clothes torn and stretched. Cap and Iron Man were laughing and in various stages of exhaustion on either side of him, helmets and cowls pulled back. There wasn’t a speck of blood on either of them, and he released a sigh of relief.

**No hurt friends.**

_I see that. Did you have fun?_

**Hmm. Play-smashed wood houses. Chased Starman. Tin-man picked up and dropped Hulk in little water. Like fun time. Tired now. Hulk sleep. Banner good?**

_I’m fine, thank you. Glad you had fun. You want to do it again?_

**Fun time good. Do more.**

Bruce nodded and released him. “Sounds like he enjoyed himself. What about you?”

Steve let out a groan. “Damn, he’s fast. Goes along like a panicked elephant, quicker than a train.”

“He was kind enough to smash those eyesores,” Tony added, jerking a finger over his shoulder to indicate where the cabins and other buildings had once stood. They were a mass of crushed beams, broken walls, and wooden struts with various metal pipes squashed flat.

“You wanted to keep the dock?”

“Didn’t want two hundred pounds of decaying lumber in the lake, leaving splinters in Big Green,” Tony affirmed. “I’ll have it removed along with all the other junk he left behind. He does like water,” Iron Man advised, his suit still dripping.

Steve was soaked, blond hair turned dark with it and hanging in his sparkling eyes. “He has a fascination with wildlife, too,” Steve said, sitting up and removing his gloves. “The deer didn’t know what to make of him. Even the birds were curious. A squirrel came close enough to climb his leg like a tree. He didn’t bother it unless it tickled. Then he’d rumble and the poor thing would take off like its tail was on fire.”

“Does this successful venture mean you won’t consider canceling the Washington Park event?”

“We talked about it. His understanding of strategy is pretty high, considering he’s about the mental equivalent of a second-grader,” Tony replied, stripping off his suit by hand, a piece at a time. Steve watched, no doubt memorizing it so he could help the next time. The locks and fittings were much easier to manipulate than the Mark IV. When he was in the under-suit he wore when he knew he’d be dressing in metal, he settled onto the grass. “He understands that in order to keep the Bad Man away, as he calls Ross, then people need to like him. In order to like him they have to meet him, without all the smash and blood.”

“As long as we’re there, Tony and me, I’m pretty sure he’ll stay calm. He might even like it, getting some positive attention rather than being shot at.”

Bruce shook his head, doubting still. “And if someone does shoot? Your party in the park might turn into panic in the streets. I happen to like the Washington Square Arch; don’t want to see it in pieces.”

“That’s what the rest of us, and SHIELD, are there to prevent,” Steve added. He glanced back at the dock. “There’s still some food left; are you hungry?”

Bruce considered. The very idea made him slightly nauseous. “No. Did he eat?”

“Did he eat?” Tony laughed. “He drank enough lemonade to make the citrus growers of America weep in glee. Then he devoured chicken, pork chops, potato salad, cole slaw, ham, a few loaves of bread, gallons of ice cream — he’s got a sweet tooth — did you know he had a sweet tooth? Steve barely managed to get a slice of peach cobbler away from him before he ate that too.”

Rogers laughed. “He’s not much for table manners, but he definitely likes chocolate ice cream. He was wearing as much as he ate, which was why the lake was necessary. The fish’ll eat good today.”

They lay there for a few more minutes as Steve’s suit dried, the birds singing, fish surfacing occasionally in the lake, other wildlife making their presence known. While Bruce knew that the danger the Other Guy represented could never really be countered, he did feel better knowing that Tony and Steve felt comfortable around him.

Being able to communicate with him had made such a magnitude of change in their own dynamic that the animosity he had formerly felt for his big, green, alter-ego had faded to an odd version of amity, a comradely alliance between intellect and brute power. It still felt very much like he was pointing a nuclear weapon when he released the Other Guy, but he was more certain that there would be less blood shed overall.

“You know this works fine when I let him out. But when he takes the reins in his teeth and bursts out, there will be trouble. You both have to remember that. When he’s frightened, there’s no holding him back; he will destroy whatever threat he sees coming at us, and won’t much care about extraneous mess.”

Tony sat up and looked at him, his sunglasses shading his eyes to such a degree that Bruce couldn’t see the mahogany orbs he knew were there. “Do you really think any of us could forget what he was like on the Helicarrier? The amount of sheer damage he caused even made Thor blink. And without his hammer, even he would have been flattened like a bug on a windshield.”

“We _know_ , Bruce,” Steve told him patiently. “But we believe that the more he gets used to having friends, allies, the less he’ll panic, and the more likely he’ll either give us a chance to protect you, or let us direct him. That’s what we’re working for.”

He nodded. A little while later they made their way toward the Quinjet and home, each lost in his own thoughts.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Party in Washington Square Park. Guest Stars: The Avengers!

Apparently the warmer weather was making the criminal masterminds of the world restive, because the Avengers were called out too damn often for anyone’s piece of mind.

First, Victor von Doom made his annual attack on New York, this time focusing on Wall Street. The Fantastic Four requested the assistance of the Avengers to help in dealing with Doom’s murderous robot minions, which were doing a great job of terrorizing the populace and causing immense damage. However, the robots also managed to distract everyone from Doom’s primary motive, which was to insert a virus into the Stock Exchange computers, draining bank accounts and forwarding cash to various accounts he controlled in Switzerland. After an hour the funds were supposed to be moved to his banks in Latveria. Tony was able to do some damage control at a complex computer bank situated at the Federal Reserve and prevent the virus from really taking hold, but it was a near thing to causing a total financial collapse, and in the melee, Doom escaped.

Then Galactus came to town, once more wanting to eat Earth without ketchup. Only the Silver Surfer’s timely arrival made it possible to send him packing, even with the Hulk and Thor to assist in the fight.

Right after that, the Maggia stole a piece of antique art of the Egyptian era that would open a portal to another universe. Like that hadn’t been done before. Barton and Romanoff went off to find it, and when they did, called for back-up because there were actual mummies chasing them. Where these guys came from no one seemed to know, but there were a lot of them to wade through, in order to get the artifact back into responsible hands.

The Washington Square Park event was the next day, a Sunday in August. Stark was tired, and the rest of the team wasn’t much better, but they put a brave face on and made their way to the open park with a large granite fountain in the center. Benches were located on all avenues, trees were swaying in the heat, and some of the more sturdy flowers were still in bloom.

Pepper had done her job. A fair had been set up all around the park with vendors and games, food and drink concessions, tables for sitting, and a big fenced off area set aside for the Avengers hard by the arch, in case they had to deploy quickly. A large, air-conditioned trailer was parked there, so the team could relax in comfort before making their way into the crowds. Around the area where the Hulk would be situated, Tony (at Bruce’s request) had placed specifically-designed absorbers, cleverly designed as light poles, to take in whatever gamma radiation Mean Green gave off, so none of the college kids would be harmed.

And were there crowds! Tony couldn’t remember a time when a city park had ever been this overrun. Pepper had argued that they should have done this at the Great Lawn in Central Park, but Tony had opted for smaller for once. There were kids from NYU, their parents, neighbors, gawkers, idlers, tourists . . . everyone had come out for a day of fun at his expense. Not that he minded the money; this was public relations at its best, both for the Avengers and Stark Industries. College classes wouldn’t start until tomorrow, but every professor, tutor and adjunct were there, along with the college administrators. It was Pepper’s job to keep them entertained, and she had handed it down to a minion of one form or another.

Steve went out first, to get the crowds used to one of them walking around. Then Thor exited, with another loud _Ooooooh!_ from the crowd. Hawkeye followed with Black Widow by his side, both looking incongruous and oddly young. They had just planned on having Bruce change behind the trailer where most wouldn’t see him. A large tent had been erected to give him some privacy.

The scientist was nervous, and Tony could see it. “Would you stop with the shakes, already? You look like you’re jonesing for some crack.”

“He’s jumpy, Tony. I don’t like it when he’s tense.”

“I don’t think a teenager is going to hurt him. Stop stalling and gimme big and green.”

With a sigh and a moment of calmness, Bruce Banner became the Hulk, his huge, wide, and tall body touching the top of the tent. His fists opened and closed, as if he expected an attack from any angle. He settled down on his haunches to get closer to Tony, his hands coming down in front of him with a thump that threw up grass and dirt. Large emerald hued eyes roved the space around them, and he huffed heavy breaths over Tony’s head.

“Easy, buddy, easy,” he urged, patting a hand over the Hulk’s arm, marveling again at the differences in size between Bruce and his Other Guy. It made his head ache. “These people don’t want to hurt you. They just want to meet you. It’ll be kind of loud at first, and they might scream. But that’s okay. Just hold onto my hand, and I’ll take care of you. Understand?”

“Where Starman?”

“Out there. Think he’s looking for the ice cream.”

“Some for Hulk?”

Tony chuckled. “He’s your friend; he’ll share with you. Now come on. And remember: no smashing unless Steve or I say to. Okay?”

“Okay,” Hulk rumbled. He delicately held Stark’s hand and let himself be led out to the wide space cleared for them under the arch. The green behemoth squinted as they stepped into the sunlight.

“Take a seat,” Tony urged, dropping his face-plate down and leaning casually against his enormous body.

As he expected, people screamed when they saw him, but while the Hulk grumbled, he didn’t react. He stayed calm as Tony gently spoke to him, letting him know what was happening and why. Police stood by the gates leading into their area, and at Stark’s nod, they opened them so people could get closer. Very few dared at first, which was fine. It would take a bit before Big Green would be relaxed enough around other people that he didn’t roar or grumble.

Soon, though, the teenagers were the first to come closer, their attitude one of casual cool overriding their terror. Girls clung to each other for mass comfort, while the guys did their best to act like this was just another day for them, that they met super-irradiated beings every day. A few tried to cozy up to Stark, but his attention was firmly directed on the Other Guy, and when Steve came up to rest a hand on Hulk’s shoulder and congratulate him on all the pretty girls, Hulk smiled.

As smiles went, it was a good one, less a grimace, and more of a beam. Still looked horrifyingly like he wanted to eat someone, but Stark let that go. As far as he knew, Hulk didn’t eat people. _And wasn’t that a great thought to have in the middle of a crowd of possible humanburgers?_

The girls came closer, and once one of them had the guts to touch him, the rest had to do it too. Soon, they were leaning on him, petting him, and laughing as he grunted in pleasure. The guys carefully patted him, in a totally macho way, and wandered off, their balls a little bigger than they were the day before and with good reason.

Natasha brought Hulk various junk food to try, the kinds of things that Bruce wouldn’t touch: funnel cakes, hot dogs, cotton candy, ice cream cones, sausages . . . he ate and ate, drinking gallons of lemonade and water to wash it all down. His subsequent burp made the crowd laugh and the physical divide that separated him from them that much smaller.

It was late afternoon when Ross and his cronies showed up in a phalanx of battle choppers and a bad attitude. “Clear the area! The Hulk has been spotted. Clear the area!” the general ordered through a microphone in the lead chopper.

Hulk himself, stuffed full of food, petted to the most calm Stark had ever seen him, and with Natasha sitting comfortably on his left shoulder, brushing his hair, only grunted, and didn’t move.

“Good man,” Steve praised him. “You let us deal with them.”

“Starman fix. Make bad man go ‘way.”

Tony had no doubts that if one bullet winged by him, the previously gentle and malleable Hulk would turn feral in seconds. “Time to let Bruce out, Big Green.”

“Danger.” He jerked a huge finger up, indicating the choppers.

“Leave it to us, okay? We’ll take care of them.”

With a sigh of what could be construed as disappointment, the Hulk gently put Natasha down, and tramped off to the tent, leaving his adoring fans behind. Minutes later, a weaving Bruce Banner put in an appearance, wearing light blue jeans and a Hulk tee shirt. The crowd went wild with irritation, glaring and yelling at the choppers flying overhead.

In just ten minutes, Ross and the the army choppers were surrounded by USAF F-14’s and carefully redirected away from the crowd. Ross’ bloodthirsty plan to get public agreement for Hulk-busting had failed, thanks to Steve’s planning and SHIELD’s running interference.

Bruce watched them fly away, his expression pensive, a frown settling across his sun-reddened face.

“What?” Tony asked, as he watched the crowd go back to the fun they were having, _sans_ Hulk.

“It worked this time. We may not be so lucky the next.”

Stark spun on him, the sharp words he was about the let fly regarding ingratitude stifled when he saw the real worry in Bruce’s sherry-dark eyes. “Life _is_ a day by day proposition, Bruce. He did good today, real good. And yes, we were prepared for something like this. But that doesn’t change the fact that he was here, in a crowd, and didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He trusted us to take care of him,” Steve added, patting Banner on the back with a gentle hand. “And tomorrow, he’ll remember that.”

“And so will you,” Tony insisted. “Now get out there and meet your fans!”

“What? Me? No—.” His protests were overridden as Steve and Tony led him past the fences and into the crowd proper. Dozens of people wanted to take pictures with them, and quite a few with Bruce alone, which surprised him.

He met a few of his current grad students, some of his colleagues, and sat down at a table to talk with them, though he didn’t eat anything. Considering what the Hulk had scarfed down, Tony thought Banner might not want to eat for a few weeks.

By the time the fair ended at six, the crowds had dispersed, but there was good word of mouth, everyone had fun, and been a part of something groundbreaking. Pepper had gone to dinner with the mayor, but before she’d left, Tony had taken her aside and told her just how pleased he was, and how proud of everything she had accomplished. A New York City fair was not a small event and took a great deal of planning, but Pepper seemed to thrive on the kind of stress that would have caused most party planners to commit suicide in despair.

Clint and Natasha decided to walk to Phil’s apartment to update him on the day’s events.

Tony’s limo was cool and comfortable, large enough to take all of them in it, with Sitwell in the front next to Sherry. They were all laughing and passing around a couple of magnums of champagne when the bomb went off.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is a cranky patient, Steve in too-tight scrubs, grad students, and angry Avengers.

Steve woke to the sensation of being carried. He was cradled in one of the Hulk’s massive arms and then set down on the sidewalk ten feet away from the remains of the limousine. It was a tangled mess of reinforced steel and glass, split down the middle by the force of the blast, the top completely torn away, probably by the Hulk’s exit. Thor was the only one of them still standing, but there was blood draining from one ear, and he was weaving like a drunk.

“Where’s Tony?” he managed to mumble. And then, louder, “Tony? Where are you?”

There were small piles of bodies on the sidewalks, and the Hulk walked among these, snarling softly as he searched. Steve’s heart was pounding in his ears, and when he tried to sit up, he cried out in pain, but again yelled, “Tony! Where are you?” with enough force that he got dizzy. As he tried to get up to search he realized his own shins were broken, and the sharp agony emanating from his chest warned him he had internal injuries, too. None of that mattered; he had to find Stark. He dragged himself a few feet, panting from the agony that radiated from his legs to his neck. He and pain were old friends; he would deal with it.

He’d lost consciousness twice more and had only gotten maybe twelve feet from his starting point, when the Hulk lifted a contorted, broken figure in dented red and gold armor. He carried him over the shattered street towards Steve, who managed to sit up with the aid of a street lamp at his back.

Storefronts on either side of the wrecked car had been broken by the explosion, and a few small fires raged along Park Avenue. People who were injured sat on the sidewalk edges, some staring blankly around them. There was the sudden entry of SHIELD vehicles braking to a hard stop and then the odd, tinny voices of many men converging on them at once. The Hulk growled and waved his arms at them in annoyance at the sound, while the other clutched Stark close. Steve could barely hear, his blood thumping so hard it overtook any sounds that might have gotten through his damaged eardrums.

Sitwell and Sherry seemed to be spared the worst of the blast, but they were quite dazed and had blood streaming from various cuts and scrapes.

None of that mattered to Steve; his focus was entirely on Tony. As the Hulk came closer, Rogers could see that Stark’s suit seemed to have protected him from the worst, but with a sinking heart, he couldn’t help but note how it was dented and fractured in places, and it was there that blood dripped in a slow stream to the ground. The handsome face beneath the shattered helmet was incredibly pale and his eyes were closed, a trickle of blood staining his lips. Steve reached out and the Hulk put Tony in his lap, Rogers’ arms clutching him tightly as he felt for a pulse at his throat, releasing a moan in relief when he felt it against his fingertips, slow, but steady and regular.

Thank God, he’s alive. _Thank you, thank you, thank you._

The Hulk was bruised and dirty, but he seemed unharmed. “Are you hurt?” Steve asked, his voice barely carrying over the noise of the scene as ambulances and other emergency vehicles arrived.

“Hulk okay. Starman, Tinman and Sherry hurt. Hammerhead mad car went ‘boom’.”

“Yeah, boom is right. Thank you for saving us.”

“Hulk go, bring Banner.”

“Okay.” He waved a hand at the emergency workers, directing the five men running towards them to work on Stark, and had just looked down at Tony again, when his vision whited out and there was silence.

 

When he came to, he could tell it was hours later and he immediately looked around for Stark. The SHIELD medical division was painted in varying shades of soothing blues and greens, and he could usually tell what area he was in by the color. This time, the walls were white, which indicated emergency services. Curtains surrounded his bay, and he was laid on a gurney, his nakedness covered only by a sheet, his legs in traction and hanging from a support pole across the bed, while an IV trickled fluid into his bloodstream. He felt weak and tired, almost exhausted, but in far less pain than he’d had when he’d first woken at the scene. “Hello?” he called out, hoping to get the attention of someone who could tell him about the status of his team. His ears still throbbed. “Hello? Tony? Bruce?”

Fury’s dark, bald head stuck itself through his curtains. “Oh, good, you’re awake.” He stepped inside, his dark clothes seeming somehow blacker in the pallor of the room.

“What’s our status? How is my team?”

“Indefinite leave,” the director replied, leaning his forearms on the top rail of Steve’s bed. “It would have been a whole lot worse if Tony Stark wasn’t the kind of man who reinforces a presidential-level bullet-proof car,” Fury admitted with a wry smile. “The roof thankfully gave way before you all went flying through it, or there would be an Avenger puddle to sort through. Stark’s sore, but he’ll live — only one broken rib, but it punctured a lung, so he needed surgery. Thor’s healing, but madder than I’ve ever seen anybody get, ranting about ‘base, cowardly treachery’ and so on.” He waved a black-gloved hand negligently. “Banner doesn’t have a scratch.”

He relaxed against the sheets. “What about Sitwell and Sherry?”

“Sitwell swears you guys are just plain trouble. He’s got a broken eardrum, a concussion, and bruises that would make a rodeo clown swear. Stark’s guy though, Sheridan, is one tough mother. He’s in pretty much the same boat as Sitwell, but he’s keeping watch in Stark’s room, a sharp eye on his boss. Think we’ll have to move him in there for the next few days, so he’ll rest. That is, if we can’t make him move.”

“Tasha? Clint?”

“Romanoff and Barton were close enough to get knocked off their feet and slid across the street, and are both sporting a shocking amount of road rash. Tasha’s hair caught on fire and she had to have an emergency haircut, courtesy of Barton, but other than that, we were damn lucky.”

Steve grimaced. “Any ideas on who did this?”

“Three guesses and all of them _Ross_.”

Steve sucked his teeth. “But can we prove it?”

“No, but I think between this and the chopper incident at the fair, we can consider his ‘hands off Banner’ policy void and defunct.”

“Time to take the fight to him then.” Steve struggled to sit up, only subsiding when Fury placed a big, hard hand on his chest and with casual strength pushed back. He was furiously angry that a member of the armed forces had nearly killed Stark.

“Take it easy, Cap. Leave it to me and Ms. Potts. He’s over, toast, yesterday’s news. Don’t worry about him anymore. Just get well. Your team needs you to keep them in line.”

Steve gave him a long look, debating whether this was just another one of Fury’s spy games. _But what would he gain by it?_ Nothing that Rogers could see. Unfortunately, he was in no immediate condition to confirm what Fury would do, or to give Ross the beating he deserved. No matter who instigated it, there was a reckoning due to Thaddeus Ross.

“I want to know about it, everything you do, anything you plan.”

Fury nodded his agreement. “They’re your team, Captain. I’ll keep you in the loop, and suggest to Ms. Potts that she do the same.”

“Suggest?” Steve frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you, Director.”

His one visible eye widened. “Have you met Virginia Potts? When it comes to Stark, she makes Genghis Khan look like a pacifist.” Fury shook his head. “I do not want to be on that woman’s bad side, thank you very much. She showed up at SHIELD HQ with her own personal army of lawyers, first of all. Then, with a smile and a charming voice, warned Reception exactly what actions she would take in the next ten hours to definitively rescind SHIELD’s charter if she didn’t get to see Tony Stark within ten minutes.”

He was getting sleepy again. He loved Pepper. Platonically, of course. “So what did you do?”

“My mama didn’t raise no fools, Cap. She saw Stark in 8.4 minutes, and settled down almost immediately. Then we discussed the best way to deal with Ross.” He gave a smile. “If you repeat this, I’ll say it’s a lie, but that woman scares me almost as much as the Black Widow.”

Steve smiled. “I didn’t hear anything, Director.” He fell asleep as he slurred the last word.

 

When he woke again, it was late at night. He looked up and blinked, frowning against the light peering down at him from over the bed.

“Too bright?” a familiar voice asked, and a hand tugged on the cord to lessen the lamp’s intensity. “That better?”

“Phil?”

“The one and only,” the agent replied, standing at Steve’s side, his hands clasped in front of him. He was dressed in a navy tee shirt, with a hooded Marine Corps sweatshirt over it, and jeans. He smiled down at him, his light tan and weight gain working for him, giving him a semblance of solidity he had badly needed in the wake of the surgeries he had endured.

It was taking time to adjust to the prosthetic heart that the mechanical genius and former X-Man Forge had created and implanted in Coulson at Fury’s desperate request. That the director had just about offered his own life to get the state-of-the-art device for his friend and colleague was a badly-kept secret around the halls of SHIELD. With an atomic pacemaker and pump, Coulson would undoubtedly die of old age before any of its parts would need to be replaced. From what Phil had told him, it took up slightly more room than his natural heart, but was lighter and more durable, made of synthetic vibranium. Phil had been tickled that he was carrying something that linked him to Captain America, and eager to share the news. Steve had just smiled, amazed once more by the wizardry this age was capable of.

The only problem they could see was holding Coulson back from overdoing before the rest of his body came up to speed. Clint and Natasha had done their best to keep him involved in the Avengersactivities, asked his advice, and in general, kept an eye on him. That he was here now only meant that he had slipped his minders.

“Are you allowed to be running around yet?” Steve asked, clasping Phil’s hand in his own. They’d become friends, once Phil had gotten over his large case of hero-worship and accepted that Steve Rogers was a guy like everyone else. Well, kind of. He could still stop suddenly and stare at him, shaking his head in amazement that he was eating pizza, watching baseball, or just walking with Captain America, but those moments were thankfully becoming less frequent.

“You’re the one in a hospital bed, Steve,” Phil reminded, handing over a cherry cheesecake frosty from _Coldstone Creamery_ , Rogers’ favorite place.

“You are the best agent in the world!” he exclaimed as he took it and with a happy grin, sucked on the straw.

Phil shook his head in feigned disappointment. “All I needed to buy your loyalty was a shake. What is the world coming to?”

“How’s Tony?” he asked, concern for his friend rising as he was reminded of the situation by his own injuries.

“He’s sore and cranky, much like you’d expect him to be after being blown up and surgery.”

Steve’s mouth was busy, so he watched as Phil walked around the room, talking as he went. “I already checked on the rest of the team. They’ll do. You’re all varied levels of bruised and broken, but nothing too awful. Stark seems to be the worst off, but the suit saved his life.”

He let out a thankful breath, relief flooding him. “What was it, in the car?”

“A new form of implosion device we haven’t seen before. Probably military, but they’re absolutely not going to confirm the provenance of the ordinance used.” The thin shoulders shrugged. “It acted as a kind of offensive grenade; particularly good in contained areas, and centered under the rear seat, the place where Stark usually sits.” He let out a soft grumble. “Someone’s mistaken attempt at humor, taping a bomb under his tailpipe.”

Steve put down his drink, his appetite flown. “So it was intended for him, then.”

“Most likely their secondary target.” Coulson looked at him, his blue gaze angry, but under control. “Banner was undoubtedly the primary.”

“An attempt to bring the Hulk out in the populated streets of the Village, frightened, angry, and without the team around to stabilize him, ready to kill anyone in his way. Then, they’d have popular support to take down Banner and paint him a _real_ monster in the media, requiring military control or a death sentence.”

“Clever. Vicious, but clever. Ross stepped over the line now; he’s made himself SHIELD’s target. And Stark’s. Ms. Potts is going to flay him like a trout, make no mistake. She has the contacts, the resources, and the will. We have the intel.”

“If Natasha doesn’t get to him first.”

Phil nodded calmly, conceding the point. “Never mess with a woman’s hair. Did you see any of the baseball game tonight?”

 

It was Rogers who was wheeled into Stark’s hospital room in the secure wing, far below the street level the next morning. Stark was an irritable patient. He had a StarkPad in one hand, and a StarkPhone in the other when Steve was brought in. While the back plate of the helmet had probably saved his life, the front plate had been open, and he’d been hit with a lot of debris. Bruises and cuts blossomed across his face and one eye was purple and sealed shut with swelling. His lips were red and bruised and he had a stitch across one eyebrow.

“Hey, Steve! I’m just calling to get some decent food brought into this dump. Though by the time it gets down here, it’ll probably be cold,” he grumbled, thumping one hand down onto the blankets.

Relief flooded him, leaving a tingle through every nerve. Tony was physically well enough to complain then he would probably be all right “Take it easy, Tony. Anything you get will be fine. Where’s Sherry?”

“Sent him home to rest. Fucking A, Ross has a lot to answer for,” he snarled, but his eyes were dull and tired. “I heard about everybody else. Bruce has been in and out of our rooms all night, checking on us.” He pursed his lips, winced, and grumbled, “The guy should really get his M.D. if he’s gonna be our unofficial doctor.”

“Don’t you think Banner probably knows more than your average sawbones?”

“Yeah, point. But we’re hardly your average anything.”

Steve shrugged. He felt oddly naked not having any clothes on other than a short, open nightshirt covering his chest to his thighs. His legs were still locked into the traction contraption, splayed wide and high. It was embarrassing to be so . . . exposed, covered with only a sheet while his bed had been pushed through the corridors.

Tony had managed a tee shirt; more likely, Steve was sure, to hide the arc reactor, rather than any sense of fashion. He didn’t care to have his lifeline where just anyone could see it, and possibly, remove it. On a quiet day a year ago, Rogers had dug further into Stark’s file, especially around Obadiah Stane. The man had mentored the brilliant boy into a nut job with a bucket full of insecurities and false expectations which had crippled an otherwise strong, smart, man. Stane’s removal of the arc reactor had given him one more new fear to add to a hundred other very real ones. His death at Tony’s hands could only happen once, but Steve wished he could have done it a dozen times more, just to get back a little of Stark’s own.

Stark’s self-reliance had been born of necessity, his staggering self-assurance coupled with an appearance of complete insouciance, was as much of a mask as his Iron Man. Tony Stark was a brilliant engineer, a fine friend, a good, generous man, and a hero. Those four completely outweighed his stated, “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist,” in Steve’s mind.

“You’re thinking, I can tell. Your face has gone blank as a baby’s.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he replied with a wry smile. “Pepper and Fury will be working together to make Ross’ life a nightmare.”

“Yesterday’s news,” Tony replied shortly, waving a hand. “You must have been asleep. At a press conference this morning, the President gave the Hulk a pardon for his former actions. White House spokesman indicated that much of what had occurred was due to Ross’ manipulations, and his desire to use the Hulk as a tool for war. The general was forcibly retired at noon today and he’s up on charges for endangering the lives of civilians with the sonics he used at Culver University. Can’t prove he had any involvement with the bombing. Yet. A lot of his less than ethical plans were made somewhat public, and right now, he’s probably being burned in effigy in army bases across the country for making them look bad.” He hesitated, frowning fiercely, his lips twisted in distaste with another wince. “Unfortunately, he’s escaped. Fled the country for all we know, but he’s gone into hiding.”

“Anyone else hurt?”

Tony’s face went a shade paler. “Thirteen people killed, eighty-eight injured.”

Steve saw the guilt pass across his friend’s expression. “It wasn’t your fault, Tony. Only Ross is to blame. What about Bruce?”

“He had a class to teach this morning.”

Steve started to rise, determined to get out of his bandages.

“Take it easy, Soldier Boy. There are so many SHIELD agents surrounding Banner, they have to move so he can scratch his ass.”

Steve subsided, not particularly satisfied. He knew how jumpy Bruce could get, how paranoid he had earned the right to be. He had questions whether the presidential pardon would have much of an effect on that. Ross had enough men who believed in him and his mission to provide trouble for the scientist. He doubted that they’d use any obvious methods, like a bomb, or a public incident the next time. No; any further action on their part would be subtle and difficult to discern.

It took a great deal of energy for him to heal as fast as he did, and he ate the huge breakfast that Tony had delivered. And the lunch. They napped in the afternoon, endured visits from various doctors, but by the time evening rolled around, Steve was restless and Tony combative. After the third snarky remark about Steve’s snoring (which he knew he didn’t do), Rogers decided that it was time to get out of traction.

It stung at first, but his legs held as he put weight on them, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

And then Stark whistled and Steve spun around, holding the back of the hospital gown closed. “Aw, don’t hide it. That’s an ass to be proud of.”

Steve flushed. A pair of scrubs had been left for him to wear, and he slid into them with immeasurable relief, though they were a little light to be going commando in. Perhaps the turquoise color might help that. The IV had been removed that morning, so he was able to toss on the top, noting that it too was a little tight.

Tony chuckled again, eyes shining, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “You might want to reconsider that outfit, Rogers. You look like a porn star.”

“It’s either I take a walk, or I kill you. Which would you prefer?”

The other man waved a hand in the air. “Sorry, sorry, I’m being a bitch. Hospitals give me the creeps, always have. And, by the way, the nurses left those; they probably want to get a glimpse of the entire package. Huh, _package_ : I crack myself up sometimes.”

“Are you _high_?” Steve asked, hitching a hip onto the end of Tony’s bed.

“No, no. I definitely don’t do drugs anymore.”

“You haven’t been drinking a lot either.”

Tony grinned at him. “You noticed!”

Steve smiled. Stark was an impressive guy. “I noticed. Thanks.”

“I haven’t forgotten that you owe me big for that one day, Rogers.” Though said casually, Steve could tell that his appreciation mattered.

“I didn’t think you would. What do you want in exchange? A kidney? My first-born? My soul?”

“I haven’t quite decided,” Tony replied, then continued with a leer, “Do I get to take a whack at your virtue?”

Steve laughed it off, though the very idea of him and Stark alone in a bed with that as a possibility made him lengthen in the not-very-concealing pants. “You sleep with me almost every night, Stark. If that was your plan, you had your chances.”

“Hmm.” Tony’s gaze was speculative, the drugs slowing that quick mind. “Didn’t know if you looked at men.”

He blurted out, “You’ll never know if you don’t ask,” aghast when he realized he’d said it aloud.

“I’m asking.” Stark’s voice was deep and serious, his eyes locking onto Steve’s with heavy focus, their darkness mesmerizing. Steve felt air hitch in his chest and he stammered, “D-depends on the guy, I guess.”

The room suddenly felt much smaller, and the depths of Tony’s compelling gaze that much more captivating. The entry of a nurse broke the enthrallment mere seconds before he would have done something he would have probably regretted. Steve could have kissed her in relief but Tony let out an irritated growl of frustration.

The nurse looked at Steve and winked, and beneath the jet-black wig and drab brown contact lenses, he saw the spirited emergence of Natasha Romanoff as she shook off her role. “Brought you clothes so you could escape,” she murmured, giving him a long, measuring look, taking in the scrubs. “ _Bozhe moi_ , aren’t you just delicious in that get-up. Bet Stark’ll be having fantasies for weeks.”

Steve went red, and Tony snapped, “For a spy, you have the worst timing. Just so you know.”

Her grin was pure mischief. “Aw, did I cockblock you, Mr. Stark?” she cooed. “How unfortunate.”

“Ms. Romanoff, you are a first-rate, grade-A, ballbuster.” He cocked his head to the side, seeming to consider. “I kind of like that in a girl.”

She removed Tony’s IV with familiar dexterity. “Sherry’s downstairs, at the back entrance. I trust you two can get yourselves out of here without too much help?”

“We’re Avengers,” Stark grumbled as he grimaced and shifted his legs to the side of the bed. “I think we can escape a hospital.”

“Are you okay?” Steve asked her. “Heard you were hurt.”

She nodded, patting the atrocious wig. “Nothing that won’t heal, though I think I’ll pull Ross’ balls through his nose when I see him again. Just for fun.”

Rogers winced in empathetic pain, having no doubts at all that she would do it if she got the chance. He pulled clothes out of the bag and tossed a few onto Tony’s bed, before excusing himself to the bathroom to dress. When he came out, Natasha was gone.

He helped Stark into his pull-on gym pants and zippered sweatshirt, noting the bandages over the surgical site were red with fresh blood when they were finished. “Tony, maybe this is a bad idea.”

“Oh, god, Steve, don’t quit on me now,” Stark huffed, his eyes wet with pain. “I want to be in my own bed; feel like a fish in a barrel here.” The tone of irritation turned to a plea. “Bruce’ll clean me up when we get home. Probably popped a stitch or something stupid like that. Please, just get me out of here.”

Reminded that Tony, like Bruce, was not paranoid without reason, (they had been _bombed_ , for God’s sake) Steve stood him up and held him there, noting the way the color seemed to slip and slide down his face. It was only a day or so after surgery and Stark refused most of the standard post-operative pain medication.

“Wait here a minute,” he insisted, sitting Tony down again.

Behaving as though he was exactly where he belonged, doing exactly what he should be doing, Steve walked down the hall, searching until he found a wheelchair and brought it back to their room. He tucked Tony into it, waved good night to Natasha, who was presently manning the nurses’ station, and trundled a smiling Tony into an elevator, chatting with the few other doctors and agents on the ride up. Whistling, Steve wheeled him to the rear entrance of the old office building that housed SHIELD’s midtown headquarters, nodding at security agents as he passed. No one questioned him.

Sherry was standing outside the nondescript Lincoln Town Car with a placard that read “165,” looking like any other car service company driver. He opened the door with speed, assisted Steve in getting Tony onto the leather seat, then held the other door for Rogers to get in. As they drove away, Sheridan said, “I apologize, Mr. Stark. I’ll hand Ms. Potts my resignation—”

“Shut up, Sherry.”

The man blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m only going to ask this once. Did you put a bomb in my car?”

“No, Mr. Stark.”

“Did you help someone put a bomb in my car?”

“No, sir. Ms. Romanoff already asked me, and an agent from SHIELD asked me, and I told them the same thing. . . .”

He kept on talking, but Tony looked at Steve with a small smile. The fact that Sherry was still _alive_ indicated that Natasha had found nothing that could possibly be construed as complicity.

“Shut up, Sherry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to take off for at least a week, longer if your doctor thinks you need more time.”

Sheridan frowned, his grey eyes displeased. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Stark.”

“No? How’d you feel when you got up this morning? Like you were Steve’s age maybe?” Tony waved a hand at him. “Don’t answer that; he just looks young.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re in danger. I don’t feel right leaving you alone.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “First, I’m _never_ alone: Jarvis watches me _constantly_. I doubt I’ll be going very far for the next few days, either, at least not until I repair the suit.”

“And stop bleeding,” Steve added.

He turned to look at him. “You’re a big help.”

“I know.”

Sherry smiled at the teasing. “You’ll keep him out of trouble, Captain Rogers?”

Steve smiled and threw up his hands. “As much as anyone is capable of, Sherry. Besides, it’s not like you don’t live in the tower. If he needs you, he’ll call, or Jarvis will.” He lowered his voice. “Stand down.”

The security officer hesitated, obviously thinking the plan through. “All right. On the condition that you will call, sir, if you need me.”

Tony put a hand to his chest. “On my honor.”

Sheridan hesitated, which made Tony massage the bridge of his nose in impatience, and then nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

After that, the drive to the tower took less than fifteen minutes. Tony tapped a message into his phone.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just letting Bruce know we’re on our way.”

A beep responded, and he looked again. “Natasha told him, so he wouldn’t go to HQ looking for us and blow a gasket that we weren’t there.”

“He’ll do it anyway.”

“Probably.”

“Especially when he sees you bleeding.”

“Will you stop with the blood? You’re like some sort of super-serum ghoul.”

“Just saying.”

“Well, stop saying. I’m fine; it’s just a little tear. I think.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied, biting his lip. When they entered the garage, Tony got out of the car gingerly, a grunt of pain slipping through his teeth.

Steve let out a breath, and picked him up. For all that Stark was muscular, he wasn’t heavy.

“Put me down. I am not a bride in some romantic comedy, Rogers!”

Steve ignored him. “Hush. Jarvis, check Mr. Stark’s vitals, please.”

The AI responded immediately. “Pulse 80, blood pressure 140 over 100, respirations 17.”

“So I hurt a little bit,” Tony admitted.

Bruce was standing there when the elevator doors opened. “No, you hurt a good deal more than that.” He unzipped Tony’s sweatshirt and pulled up the now-freshly wet tee shirt. He sucked his teeth in exasperation. “Tony! This isn’t minor bleeding! Any stabbing pain?”

“No. Barely notice it until I breathe.”

“Oh, so now you think you’re funny?” Banner jabbed the button to his lab. “Keep your day job.”

Steve carried Tony into the office area where Bruce had a long smoky blue, thickly cushioned chaise for naps.

“We keep this up we’re going to need a medical floor of our own,” Banner grumbled.

“Anything you want, snugglebuddy.”

“Don’t,” Bruce warned, his eyes flashing fire. “How you managed to get Steve to smuggle you out after you had surgery for a punctured lung and a broken rib is beyond me, but we’ll be having words about it.”

Feeling a little ashamed that he had allowed himself to be manipulated and stampeded like a runaway horse, Steve frowned but didn’t argue.

“Luckily, you aren’t badly hurt. But if your lung collapses, you’re going straight back to a medical ward. I called Buzz; he’s on his way.”

“Who’s Buzz?” Steve asked.

“My doctor,” Tony told him, giving Bruce a hard glare. “Which you aren’t.”

“No, I’m just the guy you come to when you’re bleeding,” the scientist snapped acidly.

Cap intervened. “Okay, fellas, settle down.” When they quieted, he said, “Bruce, you’re right; it probably wasn’t the smartest idea. Except he wasn’t really resting; he was so wound up he couldn’t sleep because he felt exposed. We both know he has just cause to be unnerved. That was his car that blew up, and from what Phil told me, the explosion was also meant to kill him. It was just chance that he stayed in the armor after the fair.”

“But it primarily was a message to me, wasn’t it?” Bruce was sitting on the chaise next to Tony, wiping away blood from the small tear in the stitches on his lower left side. His voice was low, and if his hands shook slightly no one remarked on it.

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “If Ross was behind it, which is likely, then it was meant to send the Hulk into a panic. How he would have behaved if Tony had died, or if we hadn’t been actively working to get on his side, is a thought I don’t want to be having. As for Stark, he’s safest _here_ , in the Tower, with all of us to look after him.”

“Until I fix the armor.”

“Don’t obsess,” Steve told him, kneeling down at his head, and stroking his hair.

“Have you _met_ me?”

Bruce was forced into a grudging smile. “Idiots, the pair of you.” He wiped his hands, having applied a fresh bandage. “Steve, go, get off your feet. You may think you heal at the speed of light, but I know you’re aching right now. The doctor will be here in a little while and we’ll get him set to rights and into bed.”

“Curl up in my room. I’m not going to want to be alone for a while,” Tony admitted, the bruises on his face appearing worse under the lab lights.

Steve nodded. “All right. Later.”

“Later,” they chorused, and Steve let himself out, but not without a last glance at the two men sitting close together under the yellow lamplight in Bruce’s office. His heart gave a little lurch at how dear they were to him, how much he would have lost if either had died. He ignored the physical feeling, but the emotion could not be so easily cast away.

If they slept a little more tightly bound together than usual, no one spoke of it in the morning. Tony had been moved to the center, both men tucked in close to him. Steve slept with one hand against Stark’s, while Bruce clutched his arm in both hands.

They were all shaken by the incident, and Tony had to deal with two mother-hens for a while until he stopped wincing when he moved the wrong way, or grimacing when he took too deep a breath.

Their sleeping positions having been scrambled, they silently revised the bed plan. Whoever got to bed first took center spot, the others ranging on either side. The thought that it was unlikely Bruce would choose to suicide now when his life was turning around had occurred to both Steve and Tony, but no one suggested that the arrangement be changed or cancelled. Obviously, it fed something in all of them to a degree where they were loath to give it up.

 

When Steve mentioned to Coulson a few days later that he wanted to go back to school, the agent smiled absently, patted him on the back, and said, “Whatever you want, Steve.” Bewildered by all the paperwork and tests required on the college website, he’d needed Coulson’s support to get through the applications process. He didn’t have any of the entrance examinations they demanded, or anything like the education most of the teenagers did going in, and had concerns about whether NYIT would even consider his application.

Coulson just smiled his easy, confident, cocksure smile, and told him not to worry about it.

Steve was kind of surprised when an admissions counselor called him the following day and asked when he would be available to come in to complete some paperwork and hand over a check.

“Sure, but don’t you want to have me take some exams or something?”

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “That won’t be necessary, Captain Rogers. We’ve taken into account your, hmm, unusual background, and will create your curriculum around it. You may have to take some relatively easy courses to begin, but once your core courses are complete, which usually takes about two years, then the more interesting architecture courses would begin. So, when do you think you’d be available?”

“Is today too soon?”

Another chuckle. “Not at all. My name is Lise Perkins, and I am one of the admission coordinators. I would be happy to see you today, and nail everything down to your satisfaction. You’ve indicated you wanted to begin in January?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, it won’t take long at all.”

“Great.” He glanced at his watch. “I can be there in a half-hour, if the trains cooperate.”

She gave him the directions to her office which he found without any difficulty. Ms. Perkins was a cheerful, buxom blonde with an exuberant laugh. She led him through the simplest process imaginable. He signed a few forms, noted that his GI bill would cover the expenses, accepted the registration confirmation, the date of orientation, and he was in like Flynn. She dropped a plastic bag with the school’s logo on it in his lap with all sorts of catalogues and course and college information, plus branded clothing, including sweats and a mug.

He called Phil before he got on the ① train. “You know, somehow I don’t think the application process is that easy for everybody. I had to work harder to get into the army and there was a _war_ on.”

There was a low chuckle on the other end. “It’s one of the perks of being a living legend and an icon of the American people.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“No worries. We on for poker tonight?”

In an effort to keep Coulson from overdoing, Clint had created poker Fridays at Phil’s place. Steve never knew who would show up. Fury, one of the Joint Chiefs, Ms. Potts, NYPD detectives, FBI agents, Ben Grimm, Banner, Wolverine, Remi. . . anyone could walk in the door. When Stark played, his chips were swapped for those of the hundred thousand dollar variety, and they would be donated to the winner’s charity of choice. While Steve had expected Tony to be the card sharp, it was Banner who cleaned them out on a regular basis. He insisted on keeping it a friendly game and would return whatever he’d won to the group, so no one who was surviving on just a government or city check would feel the pain. Stark and Pepper, however, he fleeced unremittingly and with great glee.

“Sure.”

“Good. Bring pizza and cash. Have a few new pigeons tonight.”

Steve laughed. “Wilco.”

On the train to Grand Central, he read through the course bulletin and reviewed the three classes on his schedule. He’d be taking introductory math and writing courses, and a design fundamentals class. Glancing at the items he would require, he noted that a laptop would be useful and while the school had contracts with Dell and Apple, he had the certain feeling Tony would tear him apart if he got anything other than one of his. He smiled, considering just what Stark would say, after he stopped spluttering in affronted shock.

Arriving at the tower, he dropped all the stuff that Lise had handed to him at his place. “Jarvis, where’s Tony?”

“Sir is in Dr. Banner’s lab, poking, er, evaluating, grad students.”

Steve smiled. Bruce must be loving that. He took the elevator to the lab floor and went inside. There were four young people there, three men and one woman, and all of them were staring at Stark with a mixture of awe and apprehension as he paced back and forth in front of them, a pen on one hand, idly tapping it against his other palm.

“Listen up, physics phenoms, because it all starts here.” He leaned against Bruce, Stark’s face still bruised from the car bomb. “First, Dr. Banner is a world-class brain. He is also a mean, green, fighting machine. Don’t aggravate the first, and you won’t meet the second.” He pushed off of Bruce and continued to pace. “Next, I know you all got the security lecture downstairs, but I want to remind you that only certain people have access to this floor. You will be monitored 24/7 while you are in the tower, so don’t get any smart ideas about smuggling in buddies, or trying to get into Captain America’s bedroom, because Jarvis will fry your ass so fast you’ll smell like bacon.” He turned with a cool smile and seeing Steve said, “Hey, Cap.”

The students goggled at him, and he waved in reply, taking up position behind Bruce. Banner looked like he wanted to laugh, but was holding it back. “What’s this all about?” Steve murmured, just loudly enough for Bruce to hear.

“Tony’s idea of an introduction to the lab for my grad students.”

“They look excited and just a little terrified.” He glanced at the students again. “You okayed this?”

“Did I have a choice?” Bruce replied. “Tony just wandered in, and there you go.”

Steve wasn’t sure if Banner was resigned or chagrined by the mercurial inventor.

“And third.” Stark’s voice dropped to a slow, calm cadence and the students leaned forward to hear him. “ _Jarvis is the voice of god in this tower.”_ He let that sit in the air for a tense moment. “If he tells you to get the hell out, you don’t ask questions, you don’t put away your toys, you follow directions and get _out_. The Avengers live here, and sometimes, people decide that if they squash the Tower, they’ll squash us. Hasn’t worked well for them so far, but I don’t want to have to explain an exception to your folks. Jarvis, talk to the phenoms so they can hear your dulcet tones.”

“Good afternoon. I am Jarvis, the artificial intelligence system that controls the building.”

Steve said nothing. It had been agreed that no one needed to know everything that Jarvis was capable of, not SHIELD, not the military, or any competitors. Tony had reasonable and horrifying fears of something awful happening if the AI was hijacked or hacked. Though, given Stark’s paranoia, it would have to be a concerted, brutal attack to get through all of what Tony called Jarvis’ firewalls.

The kids looked at one another with wide eyes. “That’s a computer?” one of the boys whispered.

“Not your average desktop model, but yes,” Tony agreed, then smacked his hands together. “Okay, that was fun. Time to get back to work.” He spun around on his heel, pulled the edge of his _Boston_ tee shirt down, and turned to Steve, slipping one arm in his and neatly pulling him along. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yeah. I need to buy a laptop—”

“Buy? _Buy?”_ Stark glared at him. “I have tech coming out of my ears, Steven.” He stopped in the hall that led to his lab, and turned. “Is this about the classes you wanted to take?”

“How did you know about that?”

He shrugged. “There’s an algorithm that Jarvis uses to pick up any activity on the web that uses your real name. And Tasha’s and Clint’s. Prevents unauthorized usage,” he said, flapping a hand. “But never mind that. It’s good, glad you’re venturing out. I’ll drop it off at your place while you’re at Phil’s.” Tony walked away muttering to himself, “Probably need to add the latest Auto-CAD for him to play with and can’t forget the tutorials. . . .”

Steve smiled, affection tightening his chest. Stark was the most generous man he knew, and it wasn’t because he had so much. If Tony had nothing but his hands and his heart, he would still give both unstintingly.

 

 

Two weeks after the bombing, Tasha and Clint disappeared.

It was Phil who called Steve to let him know they were on assignment.

Steve tossed down the pencil he’d been using, and sat back. “And why isn’t Sitwell telling me this?”

“Good question. I would’ve though, as the _pro-tem_ SHIELD liaison, that he’d have already called you. I’ll put a bug in his ear.”

“Thanks. Don’t think he likes us much.”

Phil chuckled. “Jasper doesn’t like anybody, Steve. It’s nothing personal. He’s just an ass sometimes.”

“So, would this mission have anything to do with Ross?”

“Damned if I know. I’m completely out of the loop.”

Steve didn’t quite buy that, but he let it go. “So who’s keeping you company now?”

“Baby agents. Think I’ll escape for a couple of hours, have them chase me around Manhattan.”

“Just to wind them up?”

“Wouldn’t want them to think that this is an easy assignment; I have a reputation to maintain.”

He laughed. “There’s nothing easy about you, Phil.”

“Thank you, Steve. How’s Stark?”

“Well, let’s see: itchy, cursing, grumpy, cursing, sleeping, cursing and working, cursing.”

“Sounds like a regular day at the office.”

“Actually, he’s healing just fine. He’s just impatient with it all. Nothing you’d know about, Phil.”

That made the agent laugh. “Not going back to work until January? Nah, nothing I’d know about.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physics and Ross' comeuppance; Tony moves a little closer to his goal.

Bruce’s first scheduled class was on a Thursday morning and he felt oddly nervous. Hecouldn’t count the number of students he had taught at Culver, but that was before his life had become so _interesting_.

There had been a last-minute change in classroom, and as Bruce made his way to the 6th floor lecture hall, he checked his briefcase to make certain he’d brought everything he needed. As he entered the hall, his practiced eye noted the four SHIELD agents secreted in the crowd, and the presence of Steve Rogers in the first row. He stopped by him to ask, “Had nothing better to do?”

Steve grinned. “Thought you might like some support.”

And just like that, Banner felt calmer. The handsome young man in his chinos and button-downs exuded such cool confidence that Bruce couldn’t help but absorb some of it. He nodded with a tiny smile and went to the lectern and spread out his papers. When the clock struck ten, he began.

“Hi. If you’re here, then you are registered for 20th Century Concepts of Space, Time, and Matter, PHYS-UA 20, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. I’m Dr. Banner.” There were the expected murmurs, but when he looked up and over his glasses, everyone shut up. “Let’s get some of the bookkeeping out of the way first.” He went through the roster, which took a little bit of time, as there were 100 kids registered for the class. Then he handed out the packet including the syllabus, his grading rubric, topics for further study, and his office hours on campus.

As that was being handed around, he began speaking. “This is an introductory physics course. It will review how and why the 20th century has been witness to two major revolutions in man's concepts of space, time, and matter. They are, Einstein's special and general theories of relativity and the implications of the special theory towards our understanding of the unity of space and time, and the general theory, for our understanding of the nature of gravity. We’ll discuss quantum mechanics: a new picture of the basic structure and interactions of atoms, molecules, and nuclei. We will talk about the uncertainty principle, wave-particle duality, and the continuing search for the fundamental constituents of matter, including the Higgs Boson, the supposed ‘God’ particle.” He took off his glasses. “It’s exciting stuff, folks. Discoveries are being made so quickly that a thorough grounding in the basics must be achieved if you are to have any chance of understanding your world in the next ten, twenty, or fifty years, even if you don’t plan on being physics majors and spending your life in a math-induced breakdown.” The room let out a deep breath and a few chuckles surfaced.

“I’m going to treat you like adults, with respect. I expect the same. Everything you need to know is in the syllabus. I’ve been doing this long enough to have anticipated any question you may have. Two items of note: I have an aversion to cell phones. Turn them off. If they ring, I will walk you to the door. Be here on time or don’t show up. Five minutes I can live with, as long as it doesn’t happen often. More than that, don’t bother. It’s rude and disrespectful to me and your classmates.

“You will get back from the course what you put into it. If you’re here to add another A to your GPA, fine. If you want to find out if you have the kind of mind that can handle physics, great, I’d love to help you find your way.” He paused, rubbing his hands together before continuing, “But if you’re here, hoping to aggravate me sufficiently that I turn into the Hulk and break the place up so you can upload it to YouTube . . . you are wasting your time and money. It won’t happen.”

There was a long moment of buzzing talk and Bruce looked at Steve. He was smiling, placid and calm, long legs crossed in front of him, his arms tucked against his solid chest, completely relaxed. “I expect you to have done the readings assigned before class. I expect you to work on more than one draft for a paper. I expect you to think, to analyze, and to put effort into every question I ask, every problem I pose.”

He let that sit, and then smacked his hands together. “All right, let’s begin. It’s a little difficult to start with the present picture of physics, so we’re going to go back a ways, all the way to Euclid….”

 

Within a month, Bruce had fallen into a punishing schedule of working at the tower, teaching, office hours, mentoring his grad students, and research that would have flattened anyone else.

Steve watched as the scientist’s reputation slowly rose from the ashes as he began to publish again. Backed by Stark International, and its worldwide funding of humanistic and futuristic exploration and enquiry, Banner was again becoming a name to reckon with in scientific circles. His grad and undergrad students adored him, following him like baby geese wherever he went, talking a language that Steve doubted he could ever become fluent enough in to understand even their most casual conversations. The last one he had overheard was about a publication discussing the ‘multi-faceted role of the actin cap in cellular mechanosensation and mechanotransduction’ in Soft Matter Journal _._ Though Steve could _say_ the words, he didn’t have a clue as to what they actually meant. He’d picked up his drawing pad and pencils and left the lab behind, shaking his head.

Stark caught him as they passed in other in the communal kitchen of the Tower.

“What’s up, Capsicle?”

“ _Don’t call me that_.” After a testy moment, he shrugged. “I made the mistake of overhearing one of the discussions Bruce was having with his grad students. It gave me a headache. Do we really speak the same language?”

Tony laughed and clapped him on the back. “Sort of. It’s just that he speaks his with a . . . an accent. Of physics. And chemistry. And stuff.”

“You’re just as bad.”

He shrugged. “And your art speak isn’t? When you and Hill start quacking about washes, color principles, chroma, impasto, encaustics and gouache, I want to tear my hair out.”

Steve blinked, but acknowledged his point with a chagrined nod.

“Had no idea that a beautiful woman like Maria Hill was spending her weekends with paint and clay rather than dancing in a mini and heels at _Amnesia._ You ruined her for me; the mystery is gone,” he complained.

“Drama queen,” Steve accused, smiling. “You don’t even _like_ Hill.”

“Just remember I’m royal and we’ll leave it at that.” Tony gave him a speculative glance, and then said, “I didn’t forget our interrupted hospital conversation, you know.”

Steve froze, like a deer in some oncoming van’s headlights. He intelligently replied, “Umm?”

Tony chuckled and tapped him on the chest with the back of his hand. “Relax. I’m not going to ravish you in the hallway. Just wanted you to know that I’m . . . interested.”

“In Bruce?”

“Stop that,” he replied with a trace of heat. “Right now, and for the foreseeable future, it’s you. Got that? You.” A finger poked Steve hard in the sternum. “And that adorable shy thing you’ve got going on, Rogers.”

“It’s not a thing, Tony,” he replied, rubbing his fingers against his nose, frustrated and aroused all at once. "It’s _me_.”

“I know.” Stark’s voice gentled, and Steve stilled, drawn in by the soft syllables coming from that mouth. “I really do, you have to trust me on that. And I’m not going to rush you, ‘cause you’ll balk at the jump. But I’ll be working it.”

The engineer wandered off without another word, leaving Steve pole-axed, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d snapped his pencils when Tony had touched him, but in that moment, he doubted that Stark had noticed.

 

Black Widow and Hawkeye were so quiet when they returned to the Tower, Steve didn’t know they were back until they showed up for breakfast the next morning.

Since too much of her hair had been burnt by debris from the bomb, Tasha had clipped it down to a buzz-cut. It wasn’t a look he’d find attractive on many women, but she made it work. As an artist, he could admire her cheekbones, wide azure eyes, and succulent mouth; he told himself that’s all it was, artistic appreciation. He wasn’t entirely sure that Natasha even liked men.

The three of them were the only ones for breakfast, so Steve cooked to order, made his own, and sat down at the dining table.

“Nice trip?” he asked them, not bothering to pretend that he didn’t know where they’d gone.

“Hawaii is beautiful this time of year,” Tasha mused.

“Great place for a vacation,” Clint added, smiling. “Of course, if you went there for another reason, it probably wouldn’t work so well for you.” _Found Ross in Hawaii._ Obviously, they were under orders not to discuss the mission.

“Imagine that,” Steve said, understanding that he would have to read between their lines. “Did you get to work on your tan?” _Did you kill him?_

“Not so much,” the sniper replied. “Lots of stuff to see and do and then we traveled, doing a pick up and stay kind of thing.” He translated: _They captured and then transported Ross to a facility._

“Took a day trip to the Capitol. It’s so busy,” Tasha added, between bites. “So many military types around.” _A courts-martial took place._

“Then we decided to take a trip out to Colorado, before the snow went supermax heavy.” _Prison?_

“I thought you mentioned you wanted to see Kansas?” _Not Fort Leavenworth?_

“Nah. Too dull,” Clint replied. “Anybody can say they’ve been to Kansas. We were looking for a more sure thing for fun.” _Leavenworth may have too many of Ross’ cronies. Supermax was more secure._

“How long did you stay?” _What’s his sentence?_

“Oh, once we got there, we never wanted to leave,” she said, tearing into her scrambled eggs. _Life._

“Was it expensive?” _Any injuries?_

“No. But then Pepper did tell us that she would take care of all the finances,” Clint told him. _Ross was broke as well as imprisoned._

“Were you satisfied?”

“Completely.” Tasha gave him a sunny smile. “It was the trip of a lifetime.”

“Couldn’t happen to more deserving people,” Steve agreed. _He got what was coming to him._

Steve changed the subject, and once he had cleaned up, turned to his StarkPad and looked up _Supermax prisons, Colorado._ The page directed him to ADX, a federal supermax where the most dangerous terrorists, unrepentant killers, and mass murderers were housed in solitary confinement 23 out of every 24 hours.

_Ross will have plenty of time to think about what he’s done and where it got him._

And then he went to tell Tony and Bruce.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PTSD

The team had been enjoying Indian summer during the beginning of October. They had gone out to eat dinner _al fresco_ at _Va Tutto_ in Greenwich Village, on little Cleveland Street. It had an outdoor Tuscan garden and brick walls surrounding them, with the sounds and sights of the city lights above them. The whole group had made it to the impromptu feast, so Tony had bought out the garden space for that night, though the rest of the restaurant was still open and they could be seen through the glass doors.

Tony sat on one end of the pushed together tables, their surfaces covered in soft white linen with burgundy napkins, ebony crystal and dishes glowing in the light thrown by the hurricane lamps evenly spaced along its length. Agent, in a sports jacket, had taken over the other end, Clint and Natasha sat on either side of him, Clint in a dress shirt and jeans, while Natasha had on a little black number that left little to the imagination and yet managed to appear almost matronly until she moved. Thor, in a grey-blue dress shirt and grey slacks, and Jane, wearing something cute and flowery, sat across from one another, while Bruce and Steve were seated on Tony’s left, and Pepper and Rhodey took up his right. Pepper was stunning in a violet wrap dress and stilettos, and Rhodey in a dressy black shirt with black jeans. Happy was still _persona non grata_ and was at the bar with Sherry.

He considered Happy’s suggestion that they take their “discussion” to a boxing ring sometime in the near future. It wasn’t a bad idea. Stark would get a few shots in, they’d hash it all out, and he’d be able to look at his former friend and driver without wanting to smack him upside the head for a) walking away after twenty years, and b) walking away with _Pepper_.

Both Bruce and Steve had worn nice clothes for the evening, Steve in a sapphire blue shirt that made his eyes that much brighter and dress jeans that fit just snugly enough to whet Tony’s appetite, while Bruce was handsome in a tan dress shirt and brown slacks.

Steve and Rhodey were talking military crap, Bruce and Jane chattering about physics, Pepper and Agent animatedly discussing how difficult it was to keep them all in line (huh). Clint and Thor were drinking wine, while the God of Thunder stared mournfully down at the green salad a waitress had given him, as if it were the only food he would see tonight. Natasha was watching all of them, a secretive smile gracing her beautiful mouth as she toyed with her champagne flute.

 _She loves us. I always knew it._ Tony picked up his slate-black water glass and glanced down at the surface of it, and the world around him dissolved. . . .

 

**Cold, always so cold, a bone-deep chill. His chest ached as he fought, sharp edges cutting, making him bleed deep inside, pushing back with his legs against the hard hands that held him down to no avail. Dirty water in his nose, in his mouth, blood in his eyes, a coming darkness hovering on the periphery of his vision . . . then AIR! Coughing and moaning in pain, until it faded, until he could breathe normally.**

**And it would begin again, brackish water covering his head completely, as they screamed and yelled at him, giving orders he knew he couldn’t obey. . . .**

 

The glass crashed against the stone-paved floor of the garden, and all eyes turned to him.

Rhodey’s smile faded as Tony stared at him, numb, stunned, trembling so hard it was more like a full-body shiver as the cold seemed to tighten around his already shrinking flesh. Tears streamed down his face and he coughed, expecting water to come up. The panic seemed to get wider and longer with each passing moment, rising like the waves of the sea to crash against his consciousness.

“Flashback,” he heard Rhodey hiss from what felt like yards away. “Pepper, get Sherry. He needs to go home.”

“Wait!” Steve’s commanding voice interrupted. “Just slow down.” And then his handsome face was in Tony’s line of vision and the blue eyes he admired were calm and cool. “You’re okay, Tony. You’re not alone.” Warm fingers landed on his knee, stroking soothingly.

_You’re not alone._

Those simple words resonated throughout his clouded, panicked mind, helping to push away the horror.

He felt Bruce’s hands on his, clutching tightly, rubbing callused fingers across his palm. “Deep breaths. You’re here in New York, safe and sound with the team and your friends.”

He felt Natasha’s fingers thread through his hair, rubbing softly. “Shh, Дорогой. You are safe with us.”

Then Thor’s almighty huge hand fell on his shoulder, Clint’s landed on the other, and Coulson tucked his fingers into his collar, at the nape of his neck. He was covered by his friends, and at any other time it would have been claustrophobic. Now it just felt good, warm, and strangely like a family should.

The bands of fear and memory snapped and fell away, crushed beneath the compassion and affection he felt all around him. The tears still dripped, and he tried to raise a hand to brush them away, but Pepper’s tissue did the job better than his shaking fingers could have.

“S-sorry to ruin the party,” he whispered, ashamed at his weakness.

“You haven’t ruined anything,” Rhodey told him, his voice working the casual vibe. “I’m not missing my peppercorn steak, man.”

“Wouldn’t be a party if you didn’t make a scene of some sort,” Pepper added softly, but he could feel the worry that tainted her voice like wet wrapping paper on his skin. He had always tried to hide the flashbacks and nightmares from her. She was strong in the moment, but would cry later, and he hated causing her any pain at all.

“Did I ever tell you about Budapest?” Coulson gave a pat to Tony’s shoulder and walked down the table, picking up his napkin like nothing had even happened, and returned to his seat.

With a kiss on his head and a pat to his shoulder, Natasha and Clint both gave a long, drawn out sigh, and muttered, “Not Budapest again!” They went back to their dinner, grimacing with distaste at the subject.

Bruce slipped out of the garden, and Steve settled into his chair, his eyes on Tony’s face and his hand resting securely on Tony’s leg.

Apparently, as the table learned, there had been an actual, real as can be, scare you out of your shorts, _zombie_ infestation in Budapest. By the time Coulson finished telling the tale of a love-struck zombie chasing after the archer while Tasha tried to protect his virtue, or what there was of it, Tony was choking with laughter. Bruce walked back in at the end, placed a _clear_ glass on the table, and Agent had to start all over again.

It was even funnier the second time around. Jane stared, astonished, and then told them about how she had met Thor. The idea of her hitting him with her car, not once, but twice, had them all chuckling, and ribbing the demi-god thoroughly about his dating techniques.

And all the while, Steve stayed by him, making sure he ate, filling his water glass, and touching him, keeping him grounded in the here and now. At another time, with another person, Tony knew he would find the behavior irritating. But this was Steve, and his care was so generous, so heartfelt, that Tony accepted it, absorbing it like a sponge too long left dry.

By the end of the evening, Tony was much better, and was able to say good-night without worrying that their only memory of the night would be his freak out. Enough years had passed that he didn’t always pay attention to the little things that might bring it out. Clearly that had been a mistake.

On the drive back to the tower, the three of them sat in the new limousine, a veritable copy of the presidential limo, “The Beast” but with more Stark to it. Steve had helped him install some of the most comprehensive armor-plating available, along with superior weaponry, the car _and its lasers_ powered by a portable arc reactor. The console kept weapons control at both Tony and Sherry’s fingertips, in the event Tony was incapacitated, and boasted a communications spectrum that the International Space Station would envy. The frame was strong and flexible; Tony had taken the initial limo apart down to its struts, and rebuilt it from the ground up to his exacting specifications. Each seat had the SI logo, and a moveable table between the two rear seats made it more comfortable for Stark to work there and included drop-in chargers for his phone and laptop.

This was the first time any of them had ridden in it. “How about a test drive?”

“Sure,” Bruce drawled, from his position on the opposite seat, his arms crossed against his chest. “As long as it doesn’t prevent us from discussing the issue.”

“Issue?” Tony mouthed to Steve, but he shook his head in reply and obviously wasn’t about to be dragged into this argument. “What issue?”

“The PTSD issue, Tony,” Bruce said quietly, but with a power that was all his own, completely separate from the Other Guy. “Actually, I’m surprised it didn’t happen before.”

He looked out of the window and Bruce cursed sulfurously and quietly. “You’ve been reliving the kidnapping?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question to Tony’s ears. Steve stayed quiet. He didn’t know a lot of the details about Afghanistan and Tony hesitated to spill them in front of him. It was different with Bruce; he had been captured quite a few times and was aware of the unpleasantries that could occur under someone else’s control.

 _Unpleasantries?_ He was using euphemisms for torture. Great. That was fucking fabulous.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing but the truth.”

“I heard a car backfire the other day and I went back to the bombing, and that took me back to the IED explosion in Afghanistan. I shook for a while and it went away.” His voice was oddly prosaic. “Two weeks ago I fell asleep in an awkward position with my head on my lab table. I woke up in pain thinking I was in that damned cave, having my chest split open with a paring knife and pliers.” He swallowed. “That one was bad. I looked into that damned black glass tonight and was drowning all over again in that fucking metal tub! This is my life, Bruce. It never goes away!”

He was yelling by the end, and sat back in his seat, pulled down his shirt to neatness, and starting taking deep breaths. “Sorry, man, that wasn’t cool.”

Banner nodded his head, calm, but his eyes were tormented. He bit his lip, then said, “Yeah. But you and I both know it helps to talk about it when it happens. You lived through the worst that man can throw at you, and you got stronger. That’s not weakness; it’s strength.”

Tony looked over at Steve. “You agree with that? It’s not like you don’t have nightmares. Would talking about it help you?”

“How did this become about me?” he asked, somewhat sourly. “Yes, I have nightmares. You’ve seen them. I don’t seem to have battle-shock otherwise.” He shrugged. “Today, at least. A few more fights like the Chitauri and I could be singing another tune.”

They got out at the Tower and continued the conversation in Tony’s bedroom.

As he slipped out of his shoes, Steve said, “Listen, fellas, I don’t think any of us is weak. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, any more than you can imagine my life. All we can do is stick together when it gets bad. If you want to talk about it,” he glanced at Bruce, “fine. I don’t.”

“Is therapy a bad word to you, Steve?” Bruce asked.

“It doesn’t have the most pleasant of connotations. SHIELD insisted I talk to more than a few psychologists and psychiatrists.” He shrugged broad shoulders. “It was a fruitcake science when I was growing up, so I don’t really believe in it.”

“But you’ll talk to us?”

He frowned fiercely. “Men these days are always talking about their _feelings_. Makes _me_ feel like a girl.”

Both Tony and Bruce laughed at his disdain. “Girls like the touchy-feely better with sensitive men,” Tony said.

Steve shrugged. “Okay. I _feel_ like I want to go to bed.” He turned and walked to the bureau to get his sleep pants and shirt, pulling off his shirt along the way. Tony admired the sleek walk, and then turned to answer his phone. It was Pepper and she was as upset as he expected, so he moved further in the living room to talk with her.

When he came back, Bruce was in the left side of the bed, with Steve on the right, a space for him saved in the middle. Bruce and Steve both had a book, but were pensive and quiet, not really reading.

 _Tonight was enough to shake anybody up_ , he mused as he changed clothes, then slid between them. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sleep. If he couldn’t, he’d just slither out and go down to the lab to get some work done. That usually kept the ooga-boogas away.

Bruce handed his StarkPad to him with a smile and he fell asleep to the sketches he had made of possible revisions to the limo.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve melts down on a cold and snowy New Year's Eve. And burns for an entirely different reason afterwards.

Steve glanced out the window at the softly falling snow. He couldn’t say that he had ever been a fan of cold weather, but he didn’t feel it as acutely as he had when he was young and malnourished, easily becoming ill from the autumn damp, or his chest aching from heavy winter winds that made his asthma so much worse. He doubted he’d ever be a real enthusiast for the winter months, but he could handle it. If he made the mistake of letting himself _get_ cold in the first place, then he could count on amorphous, clinging nightmares containing vague memories of the crash, the crushing pressure of the ice, and the ache of swallowing frigid sea water as he slowly suffocated.

The doctors surmised that he went into a form of hibernation, the ice congealing so quickly that he didn’t have time to _die_ before it formed over him. From the pictures they had taken, he had still had blood on his forehead from when he’d hit his head going down, and bruises on his face from the fight with the Red Skull.

He would always shy away from memories of that flight. Occasionally, when he needed to fly to get from one place to another he had to steel himself to look out the windows, to appear nonchalant. It was a struggle, especially if the plane lurched or as was usual with Hawkeye piloting, swerved to avoid incoming fire. He didn’t think anyone else noticed the weakness.

Tonight was New Year’s Eve, and he was attending the SHIELD party with Clint, Phil, and Natasha at the central HQ in midtown. Tony and Pepper would be with their Stark employees in the lower floors of the Tower. Bruce was going to the NYU Physics Department bash, and Thor was celebrating with Jane in New Mexico.

He glanced at his watch, noted the time and date automatically. 11:30 on December 31st, 2013.

A visceral panic tightened his gut and he stiffened. He felt all the blood in his body start to pool at his feet, and a hard sweat broke out on his face.

The window and snow beyond it became blurry. He could feel blood drain away from his face, sweat pooling on his upper lip. The sensation that he was going to faint had him clutching at a nearby chair.

“Steve?” Clint asked, surreptitiously holding his elbow, taking his weight and keeping him on his feet. “What’s going on, man?”

“Oh, God,” he whispered, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “How could you?”

The archer didn’t hear him and asked again, “Steve, c’mon, man, talk to me.” Broad shoulders shielded him from the rest of the room.

Unsteadily pushing away from Clint, he headed towards the nearest bathroom, his vision still blurry and becoming more so as he made it to the safety of the lavatory. Tears dropped as he almost fell into the toilet stall, and slammed the door shut behind him. It felt like everything he’d eaten for the past week came out of him at that point, a sense of self-loathing he’d never known before that moment encompassing all his thoughts.

_How could I? Sweet Jesus!_

When he finally flushed, Clint was perched on the top of the stall, both guarding and ignoring him as he held out a wet hand towel. Steve took the towel, and cleaned his face with numb fingers. When he was done, he dropped it to the floor, and opened the door. Ignoring the worried expression on Coulson’s face, he swept past him to rinse out his mouth with water from the tap.

“Steve? What’s going on?” the agent asked, grasping his arm. Steve shrugged it off and hurriedly left the party, cutting through the group closest to the walls until he got to the door. From there, it was a quick ride down an elevator and he was on the street. He avoided Coulson and Barton by luck more than anything else.

The snow was falling heavily as he burst out onto the street, which was empty except for the few stragglers trying to get to their destinations before midnight. Pulling up the collar of his tuxedo against the wet flakes, he sighed into the cool air, feeling his skin peppered by the wet crystals as they melted. He hustled downtown, his thoughts a whirlpool of anger at himself, pain, and a phosphorescent rage against a world that continued to spin no matter who it lost.

He could barely breathe, his thoughts a morass of guilt and pain.

_Today was Bucky’s birthday._

In 1943, he would have been 29. They had planned on celebrating it in London, even going so far as to make reservations at a swanky place that Howard knew about that was still up and running. Buck was going to get the girls and Steve would take care of the car. When they were tired, cold and hungry from one of their lightning strikes into HYDRA-held territory in Austria or the Alps, they’d talk about what it would be like: the food, the champagne, laughter and smiles from the girls, dancing in the dark, the perfume, red lipstick. . . . Steve had hoped he’d be taking Peggy. She’d teach him how to dance and they’d nestle together, talking softly, exchanging better words than those required in an all-night strategy session or a hurried briefing before racing to the next pin on the map.

Now that wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen.

They were all dead.

Bucky had never had his birthday dinner or the charms of any of the lovely women he’d dreamt about. He’d been let down by his best friend, the guy he had fought for and protected from so many bullies over the years. All Steve had to do was watch his back . . . and he’d failed. His remorse over that was but a drop in the overall bucket of the sense of guilt that he had done something much, much worse.

He’d _forgotten_.

Steve whipped himself mercilessly over it, his thoughts cruel, leaving lashes that no mere stitches could ever heal. _How could I?_ Bucky wouldn’t have forgotten him! He would have remembered, had a drink to his name, to his friendship, his courage. But he wasn’t as good a man as Bucky was, no matter what he told himself, or what anyone else said. Only his body was different, but the failings that Steve Rogers had when he was a pathetic weakling hadn’t changed.

As he walked, he vaguely heard the sound of celebrating, the squeak of horns and noisemakers, but he strode on, absently avoiding traffic and oncoming cars with the ease of the city-born. His heart shrieked at him, aching now in his chest, tightening his lungs until it felt like his childhood illness had returned.

Here he was in a new century, wrapped up in his life, his team, basely leaving behind the only person outside of his mother he knew had truly loved him without reservation.

His feet freezing from walking through the slush and snow in now-ruined dress shoes, he stopped as he realized where he was. He knew these streets, knew the arch of the Brooklyn Bridge through the clearing skies. Where had once been tenements filled with poor immigrants, struggling just to survive in the Depression, sat an old, rusted warehouse caged by fencing and razor wire.

His mind filled in the vision of what should have sat there: brick buildings worn and stained by time and cheap construction, stone-paved roads where kids played stickball, ring-a-levio, and tag, or if someone had gotten a new ball for their birthday, a pick-up game of baseball. Most of the kids were thin, scrawny by modern standards, always on the lookout for a piece of bruised fruit or a penny candy. Mothers sat on the building’s stooped stairs, catching a bit of fresh air before going back to their chores: cleaning, cooking, shopping for cheap, edible food, or canning what they had scrabbled from a small plot of garden, mending clothes, and even working outside the house if they got the chance. His mom had been a nurse, but his grandmother had been a charwoman, cleaning private houses for nickels that she wouldn’t squander on the trolley, preferring to walk miles rather than waste the money.

He stood there for a long time, until a passing police car asked him his business. He muttered something and began the long walk back, streetlights burning low and turning themselves off as dawn approached. Worn, tired, bereft, and miserably sad, Steve Rogers took himself off toward the only home he now had.

The Tower was a welcome sight. He entered the lobby and without speaking, strode past security, and went up the private elevator. He was relieved the building was closed and no staff worked on New Year’s Day. The lobby had likewise been empty of gawkers.

As he finally shambled through the door of his apartment, he kicked off the ruined shoes.

His space, as regulations had insisted, was neat and shockingly clean.

Frustrated with himself and angry beyond bearing, he took it out on the inanimate objects around him.

When he woke from the red rage that had clouded his vision, the previously orderly space had been utterly destroyed: Furniture had been reduced to splinters of wood and glass, television and computer screens fractured, bedding and throws torn, cushions eviscerated, doors broken and hanging at odd angles, pictures and paintings in tatters. He was panting like he’d run a marathon, sweat sliding down his chest and face, tuxedo jacket torn along the back and stained beyond repair. The freezer door was askew, blasting cold air into the room, while food cabinets hung drunkenly from their moorings, their contents strewn along the floor, a sad bag of sugar exploded in the middle.

Steve grabbed an intact bottle of Johnny Walker Red off the sole remaining counter, a holiday gift from somebody, and took it as he settled onto the floor near the windows, leaning his back against the upturned couch. He spun off the top and began to drink, hoping, that if he swallowed enough of it, his mind would shut down and give him some semblance of peace, even if it was only in an alcohol-induced fog. Anything would be better than this hurt and anger and soul-searing sense of loss.

  

“Yeah, Jarvis, what’s up? Jesus, you nag like a wife!” Tony grumbled to his AI, who had been trying to get his attention for the past few hours and had continued to break his concentration with his interruptions. He thought he had the portable auto-grav problem for the aircar licked. . . .

“Captain Rogers has returned to the tower, sir. I have advised Agent Coulson.”

“And why would Coulson need to know?”

“Considering he and SHIELD have been searching for Captain Rogers all night, sir, I thought it would be useful. The captain apparently had some sort of emotional upset at the SHIELD event, and evaded their care. Where he went afterwards, no one knows.”

Tony shook his head. _Crap._ That didn’t sound good. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried, sir. You _silenced_ me.”

Jarvis sounded affronted. Invoking the Silence protocol was the only way he could turn the AI’s occasionally irritating information off so he could work. Stark shrugged. He did remember that.

“Ok. He’s home, safe and sound?” Glancing down, he would see that he’d missed at least a dozen calls from Coulson and Barton. _Uh-oh._ Steve must have slipped away from them. He had no doubt that he’d hear from both men about ignoring his phone.

“It appears Captain Rogers is upset, sir. He vandalized his apartment in a state of rage and is now drinking.Actually, he has nearly consumed an entire bottle of scotch.”

Tony backed away from his soldering iron and with a frown, replaced it in its station and slid off his gloves. “He did what?”

“His apartment is destroyed, sir. Even the cabinets are torn away from the walls.”

 _Hol-ee chit._ “Is he hurt?”

“He does not appear to be. I thought it best to advise you, as these are behaviors outside of the captain’s normal parameters.”

“Just a little,” Stark muttered, walking out of his lab and then running up the stairs to the elevator. It deposited him onto Steve’s floor with a whoosh of escaping air, and he stepped into the most thoroughly ravaged space he’d ever seen outside of the Hulk’s style of mayhem. Whistling softly, Tony took it all in, and shook his head.

He and Bruce had wondered occasionally how and when Steve was going to lose his shit, but Tony hadn’t seen this coming. The super-soldier had actually seemed pretty happy, making new friends, school plans, dealing with SHIELD and his subsequent fame with resolution and an abashed smile. They’d become close, the relationship much stronger than any he had known before, even with Rhodey.

Walking through the devastation, Tony searched for Steve, finally finding him near the windows at the other end of the wreckage. He had gotten through perhaps three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey, and held it clutched tightly in his right hand. His skin looked oddly patched with silvery-white, and glancing at the snow-flecked windows, he realized that Steve had been wandering in the freezing cold long enough to develop frostbite. That he was able to even keep a grip on the bottle was remarkable.

Knowing from long, sad experience that the headache tomorrow would not be worth it, he sat with his back to the window, his legs lining up against Steve’s. He just sat there and didn’t say anything for a long while, recognizing from the thousand-yard stare in the midnight-blue gaze that Steve was not on this plane with him. Whatever this was, it was serious. Steve wasn’t trying to get drunk, he was deliberately trying to make himself comatose. If not for the serum, he’d be dead from drinking like that. Sure, Tony, before he’d deliberately turned his booze button off, could have handled it. But for somebody to whom a few beers was enough, would have been on the wrong side of alcohol poisoning. He’d had his stomach pumped a time or three and knew the symptoms. Rogers wouldn’t go there, but he was trying.

Steve returned to the present in a little while, and his eyes refocused on Stark.

“I like your redecorating scheme. Sort of early Vandal, isn’t it?”

Steve didn’t smile or shrug or give any of those little winsome expressions that Tony adored. The young man looked . . . _broken_ , for loss of a better word to describe it. Like some truth too terrible for him to absorb had been forced upon him and burned his proud and unwavering soul to a small pile of ash. “You know I don’t give a shit about the stuff, right? You could do it every day and I still wouldn’t care. It’s _why_ you did it that has me worried. So spill it. What’s so awful that you needed to break the place up?” He thrust out a hand to encompass the room, no sarcasm or hostility in his voice or body language.

Steve just stared at him for a long moment. His voice was hoarse and fractured when he finally did speak.

“I should go away, Tony. I’m not good enough for the Avengers. I’ll mess it up somehow.”

Stark chuckled darkly. “That’s my line, friend. I’m the disaster on legs, not you.”

There was a long pause, then he murmured, “What do you think Rhodey would say if you betrayed him?”

Tony shrugged. “Depends on what kind of betrayal, I guess. He’s family; we don’t get to leave them, even when we do screw up.” He scraped at a small speck of oil on his jeans with a thumbnail. “I’ve upset him, shamed him, worried him, manipulated him . . . and he chews me out and we get over it. Sometimes I make it harder than I should to move on, but invariably we manage. It’s — we’re — important enough to each other to do that,” he divulged. He took in the abject misery on Rogers’ handsome face. “Why? Who did you betray, Steve?”

“Bucky.”

Tony Stark could admit to having some jealousy issues when it came to Steve’s former best friend, rooted entirely in his own psychoses. “How?”

“I forgot him.”

The sound of Steve’s voice was dead. Tony couldn’t remember ever hearing that particular timbre before. “How?”

“Today, I mean, yesterday . . . um, New Year’s Eve was his birthday.” The laughter that followed was hollow. “And I, his best friend, his buddy, his pal, completely forgot about him, so caught up in my own life that I couldn’t even bother to remember the guy who’d saved it.”

Tony considered what he knew about Barnes and Rogers, then decided to cut to the chase. “You didn’t kill him, Steve. I read your report; it oozed self-recrimination, but Barnes chose to pick up the shield.He was protecting you. He probably realized that it would make him a target. You were just that important to him. ”

Steve’s eyes wore their anguish like a dark shroud. Rage and ice had turned to tears. “Why didn’t he hold on?”

Tony bent his knees and scooted closer on his butt until he could grasp Steve’s hand. The soldier clutched it like it was his only lifeline. “Because he couldn’t. And that’s not your fault either.”

“I brought him there; he was following me—”

“For god’s sake, Steve, nobody goes into a war zone unless they make a conscious decision to. He obviously wanted to be with you, to help you in your battle with the Red Skull and HYDRA, to save the damned planet. His written reports are succinct but detailed enough to ascertain just how much he loved what he was doing.”

“He did it because of me. He wouldn’t have been there otherwise.”

“Maybe so. But again, Steve: His _choice_.”

There was silence then, the quality of which was crystalline, singular, and emotion-packed as Steve wept tears that had been held inside for far too long. Tony edged himself even closer and pulled him into an awkward but heartfelt hug, lending a shoulder to a man who had always bore the world’s burdens without care for himself.

“It’s okay to be sad, Steve. You lost everyone you ever loved in one unselfish moment; it’s got to burn sometimes. And I don’t think you _ever_ forget him. You wear him like an angel in khaki green on your shoulder, reminding you of who you want to be, giving voice to the best part of you.” Tony sighed, and patted Steve’s back. “He wouldn’t want this, though; no one who loves you would want to see you this hurt, not for anything.”

There was no consciousness to it, no awareness. Steve lifted his head, hair disheveled, eyes reddened with tears, skin blotchy . . . and Tony kissed the soft, damp lips like he did it every day and it was just a part of who they were.

And in that moment, it _was_ who they were, Tony unable to think of a life where Steve Rogers was not front and center, an indomitable hero, loyal friend, and affectionate lover. This was what Tony had wanted, all those days and nights when he longed and grasped for something he hadn’t found yet.

And Steve, hesitantly and with a great deal of uncertainty, kissed him back.

For a moment, a harsh voice told Tony that he shouldn’t take advantage. And he snapped back that Steve needed the comfort of someone who loved him.

 _Loved him_.

And that, too, was nothing new. It had been building within Tony for a long time, fed a little more every day by Steve’s kindness and resolute bravery. He couldn’t have resisted it, even if he and Pepper had still been together, and it pushed aside the burgeoning affection he held for Bruce.

It wasn’t a kiss of passion; no, this was more of an intimate joining of souls, a need to soothe and confirm, to give comfort and assurance. When Tony pulled back, he licked his lips, ignoring the taste of whiskey for the flavor of Steve’s lips, an undefinable essence that he suddenly knew he would feel deprived without.

“Tony?”

Still stunned by the avalanche of emotions that had roiled through him during the night and morning, Steve’s voice held within its soft depths a wish for guidance. Honored by Steve’s trust, Tony got to his knees and then his feet, bringing Steve up with him. “Come on,” he urged, taking the soldier’s big hand in his own and leading him to the elevator and upstairs to his place and the bedroom.

Aware that Steve had to be exhausted by the emotional outburst, Tony stripped him down to his tee shirt and boxers, smiling at the plain white cotton, and pushing him back onto the bed, removed his black socks. Tony did the same and carefully climbed in after him. But instead of cuddling against Roger’s larger body, he opened his arms, and was grateful when after a moment, Steve curled into him, seeking the warmth and strength of his body as a shelter from the storm of his feelings. For a short time Steve huddled against him, his face pressed to Tony’s throat, lips trembling slightly against his skin.

When Steve’s head fell back, seeking his eyes, Tony let him see what he felt in that moment: not disappointment or disdain, but love, affection, and support, overriding a banked desire. Too tired to do more, Tony urged his Steve to rest with warm kisses slowly peppered across his face, his mouth, his hair. And as he fell to sleep, Tony held on, wanting to give to Steve’s dreams whatever safety he could offer.

And slid into his own rest with a rare sense of satisfaction with himself and his world.

  

When Steve woke again, it was night, but exactly when he couldn’t say. Was it still New Year’s Day? Had more time passed? He felt oddly disoriented. He was tucked tightly against Tony’s side in the guest bedroom, Bruce a warm weight at his back, silken sheets sliding again his skin. His head hurt, his throat was sore, his feet and hands hurt, and he was starving. The lights on either side of the bed were on and both men were quietly reading, occasionally making comments about some science subject that was way above Steve’s understanding. He wasn’t even certain what branch of science it related to. Mentally shaking his head, he let it go.

Whatever else had happened in his apartment New Year’s morning, Tony had managed to make the worst of the guilt fade. Bucky was always a part of him, and would be, no matter how long he lived. A day probably didn’t go past when he didn’t think of him, even if it was just for a second. It would take a long time for the pain of his death to dim if it ever did. It was also undeniably true that Bucky wouldn’t want Steve to mourn like this.

“You awake?” Tony murmured, rubbing a hand over his hair. “Must be hungry, but trust me, you need a shower first.”

A little embarrassed that he had cried all over the engineer, he shyly sat up. Tony looked him over, and nodded, a silent confirmation that they were okay. One warm hand cradled Steve’s cheek and he was instantly reminded of the soft kisses they’d shared that morning.

Uncertain of how to respond, aware of Bruce at his back, Steve got off the bed and went to shower. When he’d fallen asleep it was just him and Tony in the guest apartment. When had Bruce shown up? Did that mean that Tony wasn’t really interested in him, that he wanted the presence of another person to offset the intensity of what Steve had thought they’d shared?

The hot water felt great and he stood under it for a long time, trying to sort out just what he was feeling. Confused, almost befuddled, he tried to rationally parse the situation. He wasn’t a man who lied to himself, or he tried not to. His attraction to Tony Stark was deep and intense, but he had always doubted that Stark was really interested in him, Steve Rogers. _Why would he be, when he could have anyone?_

He often wondered why Tony and Bruce weren’t together; they seemed to be more obviously compatible. But it was him that Tony had kissed. Did it mean anything to him?

In the privacy of his thoughts, he remembered the Chitauri fight, and Iron Man hurtling out of the sky, the stillness of Tony’s body beneath his hands, how his lips were turning blue. . . . His own heart had hiccupped, its erratic beat a warning of deeper feelings than those he would have admitted to then. Steve had felt a tear or two slid down his grimy face when Stark jerked in primitive terror from the Hulk’s growl and began babbling about days off and shawarma. He’d told himself it was relief, but he’d gotten aroused when they had their verbal skirmish in the lab before Hawkeye’s attack on the helicarrier, and again when Tony had rescued him from the machine-gun toting agent.

_What should I do now? Were Tony’s kisses only a way to calm me down, to soothe me, like nuzzling a fussy baby? Or was he feeling something more?_

Frustrated, wanting Tony alone so they could talk this out, he jumped when the bathroom door opened and Bruce came inside, seating himself on the toilet top, tossing Steve’s familiar pants and tee-shirt on the sink. He looked comfortably rumpled, his pants wrinkled like they got when he spent a long time in his lab, his shirt soft and loose against his chest. His hair was a wild cascade of silver-black curls that rested against the nape of his neck. He looked good, less strained than usual. But that was offset by the tight lips and the way he was hunched over, his hands clutching his elbows.

“I hope you don’t mind, but Tony told me what happened this morning. I checked you over while you were asleep.”

There was a pause, an opening for Steve to get angry, but he felt stunned, surprised, even more confused. Had Tony kissed him and then told Bruce about it? For that matter, why was Bruce even here? Bruce wasn’t a medical doctor, and even if he was, Steve was uncomfortable with Bruce checking him over while he was asleep, reminded of the phantom touches on his skin by SHIELD doctors while he was comatose. And why did Tony tell Banner about something that had been so private, so personal to Steve? Was there more to _their_ relationship than he knew?

Maybe later he’d discuss the idea of privacy with Stark. At the moment all he felt was _hurt_.

“The serum will take care of the headache you probably have. You also had a major case of frostbite, so if your skin hurts, that’s the reason why. Your feet, hands, and ears took the full brunt of it, and they may be awkward and stiff. You’ll heal that, too, over time.” There was another pause, as if Bruce were waiting for him to turn this monologue into a conversation. He didn’t feel any need to. He turned off the water and grabbed a towel, pushing aside the stall door, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He felt so much, he couldn’t get a word out over the lump in his throat.

“I wish I had been there for you, Steve, like you’ve been there for us. I wish . . . I wish that we could help you find the sense of family you lost when Bucky died. But more than anything else, I wish that you could, would, come to us when you hurt — that you could trust us enough for that.” He paused, visibly gathering his words together,and Steve had a moment to realize just how good a friend Bruce was to him. He really cared — it wasn’t just the words, but the need to help behind those words that made the difference. And after how he’d failed Bucky. . . . He felt like he was failing Bruce, too, by wanting Tony so badly, wanting to keep him all to himself.

“I know you have all these ideas of what a man should be: the silent, stoic, responsible guy who doesn’t let on when life gets painful.” He sighed. “But no one on the planet has suffered the losses you have, and we probably can’t understand even a tenth of what you deal with on an average day. Still, we want to help, if you’ll let us in.” He caught Steve’s eyes with his own; in the sherry-brown gaze he saw disappointment for a raw second. “Even now I get the feeling that you’re hesitating, delaying any sort of action on an emotional front because you’re scared to get hurt again. I don’t really think you let yourself see how much Tony and I care.”

‘…how much Tony and I care?’ Were they together? Was Tony in a relationship with Bruce and Steve had been too blind to see it? Were Tony’s caring actions only a part of the odd ‘support group’ they had formed to get them through the night?

His throat tight, stomach rolling in protest, Steve couldn’t speak for a long moment, finally managing to murmur, “Can’t. ’m not that strong.” He hid his face behind a towel for long, hot, moments.

“I don’t believe that. Neither does Tony. And we’re going to push until you see the true strength in you, Steve Rogers, which has nothing to do with your body, and everything to do with your heart.”

By the time Steve came out from behind the towel, Bruce had slipped out, the door clicking closed in his wake.

He let out a silent curse. He hated feeling this unsettled and conflicted; it distracted him and distraction could get a guy killed. He dressed slowly, his mind a whirl of emotions that he couldn‘t seem to pin down. Finally, with a deep breath, he opened the bathroom door and headed for Stark’s kitchen, bare feet quiet on the floor. There, he silently sat down at the breakfast bar, a tantalizing odor wafting around. Tony, with a teasing grin, slid a huge platter of carbohydrate-heavy pasta with a dozen meatballs from one of their favorite restaurants in front of him, watching him eat with a heavy sense of satisfaction rolling off of him. His hands, as Bruce had warned, had little ability to sense touch at the moment and he had a few awkward moments with his fork.

Breathing slowly, his throat still tight, he managed to say “Thanks,” when he’d finished the last crumb. “I needed that.” He looked around. “Where’s Bruce?” Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he guessed he should consider them a pair.

“Working a time-sensitive experiment. He said I should take care of you.” Tony’s voice was unusually quiet and it immediately sent shivers up Steve’s spine, as Tony walked behind him. “I told him I would,” he whispered in his ear, and the shiver turned into a shudder, a kind of hunger he had never experienced before lighting up every nerve in his body. Warm lips brushed warmer kisses along his shoulder over the cotton before Tony spun him around on the stool.

“We need to talk,” Steve blurted, his breath coming faster. All the blood in his body seemed to be pooling in his groin, and he unconsciously parted his legs. There were so many things they needed to say, but if this was all he could have, if this was all Tony wanted from him, he was going to take it while he could. Touching Tony was like some exotic food that chilled his mouth and heated his body, and he didn’t know if he could live without it now. His sensuality was potent, a liberal aphrodisiac of the senses, and Steve, untutored, unknown, needed more of it.

Tony nodded, his eyes avid. “We will, promise. But if I don’t taste your mouth again soon, I might just lose all semblance of rational thought.”

These kisses were like none he had ever shared with any chorus girl.

Tony was initially fierce, hungry and demanding. Steve resisted, unwilling to be overtaken like some beach in Normandy. Tony’s mouth softened, asking for permission rather than insisting on entry. Gentle warmth replaced the heat, and Steve was caught, ensnared in the slow, casual intimacy of each one as small gentle kisses became a lick of tongue, begging entry. He yielded, wanting more, and Tony didn’t disappoint him. The dance of lips and tongue was rich, erotic, Tony delving deeper with each, learning him with a skill Steve couldn’t hope to match. Finally, they slipped apart with a wet smacking sound, Steve’s heart thundering in his ears, his aching hands clutching Tony’s hips with too much pressure, but he couldn’t make himself let go.

His eyes almost black with arousal, Tony inched his hips between Steve’s thighs, grinding their crotches together. Steve almost went cross-eyed, it felt so damned good. He let out a strangled groan, his erection pressing against his sweatpants in a solid, thick plea for attention, and he continued to rub himself against Tony in a desperate attempt to get some relief.

Stark chuckled and continued to kiss him, nibbling his lips, sucking on his tongue, until Steve was moaning into him, and one hand lifted to steal into the dark hair and hold him there. He was walking before he knew it as Tony led him, one bare foot in front of the other as he was taken to the couch and pushed down, Tony straddling him.

“There is so much I want us to do, babe, but right now . . . oh, god, right now, I just have to touch you,” Tony admitted, his voice ruined by desire. His gaze surveyed Steve with eyes like hot coals, and his hands passed over his chest in frenzied strokes over his tee shirt.

“Easy,” Steve urged, holding both of Tony’s hands in one of his, “take it easy. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Aren’t you?” he replied with a sly grin. “I think you’re gonna be bouncing off the moon really soon.”

“Braggart,” Steve grumbled, but had to smile at the arrogance.

“Not bragging when it’s true,” Stark reminded, and slipped off his lap. “I think we need to take the edge off first, so I can get what I want,” he murmured, grabbing Steve’s sleep pants and beginning to pull, his expression taunting. He had no hope of getting them off unless Steve helped. His cock quickly made the decision for him and he lifted his hips.

Tony smiled and pulled the pants slowly down his legs like he was opening a particularly good present. While Steve was shy about his body in these circumstances, his cock sure wasn’t. It stood proud and tall, slapping against his belly with each breath he took. Tony grinned and pushed Steve’s legs wider, licking his lips, and stroking Steve’s thighs with greedy hands.

“Mother, may I?” Tony murmured the words to the children’s game in a line of vulgarity that made Steve gasp. His fingers were cool against Steve’s heat, and he shuddered when those thorough fingers slowly made a reconnaissance of his cock, sliding up from the base to the tip so gently he could barely sense it, only to return and begin again. Steve locked his fingers in the couch cushions and held on, aware that Tony was mapping him, learning every contour of his width and length, the branch of nerves just under the tip that made Steve cry out, the bulbous head, slick and shining with fluid.

When he was done, he let go, and Steve’s body went limp, shocked by how just a few touches could leave him sweaty and harder than he’d ever felt in his life. Tony just gave him a sultry smile, bent slightly, and inhaled him, sucking his cock into his heated mouth with such hunger, Steve let out a loud moan, unable to stifle it. His lips stretched wide, Tony’s eyes twinkled in sensual humor, and then he closed them, and swallowed.

The sense that Tony had taken him over, had stolen a piece of his body, right there in front of him, shocked Steve to the core and he jolted. No show girl had _ever_ deep-throated him; for most, it either wasn’t her thing, or she just couldn’t do it. But Stark had no trouble, and a furious, raging jealousy speared Steve like a knife to the chest. He growled, “You’re . . . _oh_ . . . too damned good at that, _sweet Jesus_ . . . Tony.”

Stark shook his head, as if shocked Steve was still able to do anything more than moan. He sucked harder in response, fingers teasing and testing his sac, rolling him like a pair of dice he was eager to try out. When he found the rhythm he liked, Tony held the base of his cock between two fingers and went at it, swallowing him down, nibbling, sucking, licking and sending Steve into the stratosphere, his cries of pleasure loud and wild, unable to stifle them, though he did try.

“Oh, God, Tony, Tony, baby please . . . please.” He panted, one finger stroking Tony’s hollowed cheek, before his head fell back in anguished pleasure. “Ahh, I’m gonna . . . gonna, . . .” and Tony would back off for a minute, letting Steve lose some altitude, before he sent him back up, until he could take no more, and went over the edge, muttering his name.

He fell back against the couch, panting, his voice a cracked groan. “Oh my God, Tony,” he cried when he could speak.

Tony was leaning against Steve’s thigh, wiping his mouth with the couch blanket. “Moon?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question.

“Moon,” Steve agreed, catching his breath enough to smile as he cupped his hand around Tony’s cheek. “Might’ve been Mars. Do I want to know how many men it took to make you that good?”

“Er, probably not,” Tony admitted, rubbing his rough cheek against Steve’s palm. “But given the result, I’d say it was worth the effort.”

“Come up here,” Steve coaxed. “I’ve had all the fun. It’s your turn.”

Tony laughed and shakily stood up. There was a large wet spot on his sleep pants. “If you think I could stand you begging and wailing for it, you’ve got another think coming.”

Steve smiled, and with trembling hands, leaned over to pull up his pants.

“Oh, no, no. Bed. Now,” Tony insisted. “I’m not done with you yet. And lose the shirt.”

It took Steve two tries to get off the couch and his knees were wobbly and uncoordinated. But he was able to make it to bed and leave his clothes on the edge as he climbed in. In the meantime, Tony had changed his pants for another pair from the bureau and was watching him with an avaricious gaze.

“Lie back against the pillows,” he said, and Steve did as he asked, his pale skin against soft navy sheets. Steve had been in Tony’s bed before, but not like this. Now everything looked and felt different. Tony looked at him there for what felt like a long time, until Steve curled his fingers in a ‘come hither’ gesture that had Tony smiling and moving forward, rubbing his hands together and licking his lips. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he said, “I think you should know . . . before this really gets going. I’m difficult, obnoxious, arrogant, demanding — and those just might be my good qualities.”

Steve gave him a warm, understanding smile. “I know who you are, Tony.” Steve sat up and grasped his hand. “What I don’t know, is what you expect this to be, this thing between us.”

“Besides astonishingly fabulous sex?”

He smiled and nodded his head. “Yeah, besides that.”

“Do we have to discuss this now? I was thinking more along the lines of committing every one of your muscles, tendons, and creases to memory. With my tongue.”

Steve blinked. “It’ll wait.”

Tony laughed and moved further across the bed on his knees, pulling the sheets and blankets down to the bottom edge. “Turn over,” he said with a flipping motion of his fingers.

He obliged without saying a word, tightly tucking a pillow beneath his head, and locking his arms around it. Recent experience taught him he’d need something to hold on to.

 

It wasn’t remotely possible not to get excited at the idea of Steve Rogers in his bed, laid out like a plate of _hors-d’oeuvres_ he couldn’t wait to sample. Supple skin glowed in the lamplight, pale and perfect, from the wide shoulders to the ridiculously narrow waist which tapered down a sinuous spine to the dimples in his hips, just above a spectacular ass that he knew he’d be pinching a lot in the future. Long, long legs and strangely soft feet with high arches completed the picture on this side. While the evidence of Steve’s bout of frostbite were still evident, some of it had faded. Still, he thought they would need some special attention.

His explosive orgasm from just listening and watching Steve writhe and moan from a blow-job, however expertly administered, had brought Tony’s libido down to a gentle simmer. He wondered how many times Steve could come in succession, but put that off for another night, another experiment in sensuality.

Steve jumped when he first touched his ankle, but spread his legs wide enough that Tony could slip between them. Tony’s knees might complain tomorrow about all the time spent on them tonight, but he didn’t care. This was _his_ Steve, _his_ , and though he doubted Rogers realized it yet, Tony’s heart had made its decision long ago.

In the back of his mind, in the place where his thoughts were always speeding along irrespective of what he was doing, he recognized that his father had set him up to love the guy from his cradle. Not that Howard would ever have thought of it that way, but even he couldn’t have argued that he had been prepping his son to love Steve Rogers so deeply that no one else could possibly have compared. His obsession not only with Captain America, but with Rogers himself, was legendary in the ranks of Cap hunters. From the complete purchase of anything Steve had owned, housed in its own private museum, to the annual summer trips to follow the probable trajectory the Red Skull’s bomber had taken, there had always been another person haunting their house. Not in body, but in spirit, a longing that Tony knew from boyhood never to mention.

When Rogers looked over his shoulder at him, his gaze both penetrating and concerned, Tony laid a casual pat on his ass. “Just looking over the real estate, beautiful. Fine, fine stuff.”

Tossing away anything other than the here and now, Tony laid across Steve’s back and hugged him like the biggest and best Teddy Bear he could possibly envision. _God, he’s so warm._

He felt Steve relax by degrees beneath him, and didn’t move away until he felt as soft as a super-soldier was likely to get in his embrace. His lips began a gentle foray across the broad shoulders, nuzzling the nape of his neck, inhaling what to Tony was Steve’s signature scent: a hint of Old Spice overlying the scent of clean, healthy male animal, a musk that was as irresistible as it was unique. He loved that the nape of his neck was ticklish, but the join of neck and shoulder was an erogenous zone, and his lips there made Steve moan softly, teeth made it louder, and sucking. . . .

“Do you know what the sound of you does to me?” Tony asked, nibbling on the lobe of his ear to Steve’s soft panting. “Makes me want to see how _wrecked_ , how _destroyed_ , I can make you.”

Steve dropped his head and groaned softly against the pillow. His arms tightened incrementally around it, and at any moment Tony expected to hear a pop as its container could no longer hold the feathers together under the pressure.

Following his plan, he stroked, learned, mapped and tasted Steve’s broad back, the valley of his spine, memorizing each indent of vertebrae, the softness of his waist, the broad sweep of long, thick muscle, the flatness of shoulder blades, and the deep indents of his hip bones.

He alternately licked, bit, and sucked on his butt cheeks, leaving marks here, too, chuckling softly at the way Steve clutched the pillow to his chest and fought to remain still for him, as sounds he struggled to contain slipped from between his tightly closed lips. His tongue laid a path at the join of thigh to cheek and he nipped there, just enough to make Steve jump. Though he longed to taste him, _really_ taste him, at the deepest, darkest source, he held back. There was so much he wanted! But if he freaked Rogers out, he might never get the chance again, and so, he resisted. He did wetly lave his balls in recompense, admiring the reddened, rough/soft velvet sac, loving the cracked sound Steve made and the way he tensed up. He didn’t doubt that if he sucked them, Steve would come. Another erogenous spot to work on at another date. What a wonderland Rogers was turning out to be!

As he moved lower, he intentionally brushed his hair against Steve’s balls, sucking his thighs, aware Steve was getting hard again by the way he moved against the sheets. Fumbling in his pants to grab the lube, he singlehandedly removed the top and spilled some on his fingers. Sliding them back, he prepared himself, remaining out of Steve’s line of sight while he did so. Oh, this was going to be so good. He probably spent a little too long adoring Steve’s calves, but what the hell. When he was done with himself, he moved on to his ankles but Steve jerked away. “N-no,” he managed to say.

“Too ticklish?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I can do it another time. Flip over.”

Steve groaned, whether it was from having to move or Tony’s tenacity, he wasn’t quite sure. As he expected, Steve was hard, his long, thick cock tucked against his navel in proud glory, red and hot from being pressed against the bed for so long. His mouth watering, Tony resisted, and began his recon from Steve’s throat, peppering it with licks and bites of a more substantial nature, wanting to mark him, yet knowing they would never last. Steve writhed beneath him, his throat obviously one of those hot zones Tony was searching for. He could see Steve biting his lips to keep back the sounds that wanted to escape.

“Naughty, naughty, want to hear you,” Tony reminded, biting again into the sweet spot between his neck and collarbone, pleased when Steve cried out and grabbed his head.

“Jumpin—!” he gasped. “Oh, please . . . slow down. Please.”

“Anything, baby, anything you want.” He responded, moving downwards and licking the firm, wide shoulders, and down, his fingers stroking and squeezing Steve’s chest. Actually, the man could be said to have tits, his pecs were so big and chunky, but saying that just might ruin the mood altogether, he was clearheaded enough to realize. Not seeming to be all that excited when Tony stroked them or squeezed, he lowered his head to lash his tongue across the pebbled bud of his nipples . . . and nearly jumped out of his skin when Steve lurched upward and gave a groan like he was being blown.

_Oh, this is going to be SO much fun._

With a filthy chuckle, Tony dropped his weight onto Rogers, and began pinching and teasing the other nipple, too. Steve was trying to twist away and toward him at the same moment, torn between wanting the sensation and avoiding it. Tony locked his legs around him as well as he could and held on. When he sucked this time, it was with a purpose, and Steve moaned, pillow forgotten, hands holding onto the bedding so hard he would leave holes in the mattress. His hips ground up into Tony’s, and that made Stark’s eyes roll as he held on to his own desire, wanting to give Steve everything he could before he came again tonight.

“Oh, god, Tony, _please_!”

He slid over to the other nipple and gave it much the same treatment, but when he added teeth and tugged, just a little, he was afraid Steve was going to shoot right then and there. Which would have been fine, but for the next part, he kinda needed Steve hard….

He backed off, bringing him down gently, until Rogers was able to breathe again, as Tony nuzzled and nipped his abs. _Damn, you could break a tooth on these babies,_ he thought with wild admiration, sucking on the indents of his hips, smiling as Steve’s wet cock left a smear of pre-cum on his cheek in passing.

Taking a deep breath out of sight of Rogers, Tony lifted his head and smiled, pulling out the condom he’d previously ripped free of its foil. (You didn’t get to be _Tony Stark, Playboy_ by not being prepared.) He shimmied out of his pants while Steve calmed down, and once they were off his ankles, slid the condom on Steve.

That caught his attention right quick. “Tony? What—!”

“Shhh, I want,” he said, moving up his body until his knees were on either side of Steve’s ribs and reached behind to line himself up. It had been a while since he’d received, so he took his time. As the head quickly broached him, he sighed in both pleasure and pain, but it was a _great_ kind of burn, so he didn’t mind.

With that phenomenal strength that was as much a part of Steve as his stunning eyes, he did a half-sit-up and grasped Tony’s hips, preventing him from descending any further. “You don’t have to do this.” The expression of his face was one of shock . . . and awe.

“Let me go,” Tony begged, humor fading into need. “I want it. I want you! Have since forever. Please, give it to me.”

Steve closed his eyes, and Tony could almost see the mental battle of wills going on inside the man. The cock in his ass was even thicker and harder now, but Rogers’ integrity was fighting it. Deciding to short-circuit the argument, he slid down further, moaning at the intense pressure but loving it at the same time. “Want you to fuck me,” he growled out, “Want it bad.”

Whatever Steve saw in his eyes decided him. He lay back down, entwining his fingers with Tony’s to give him support, and didn’t move a muscle, holding himself still so the show was all Tony’s.

“Ohh, so good to me,” he murmured, taking more, and still more, knowing Steve was big, but there was a difference from big in his mouth, to BIG in his ass. The lube had helped, the fingering even more, but nothing was going to make a first time with a guy that thick any easier than this. He stopped thinking about the burn, about the stretch, and looked down, into Steve’s wondrous eyes, wide and stunned, but it was the color that caught him: a phosphorescent blue burned there, all but eclipsed by the black in his desire. His hands sweat in Steve’s, his tee shirt stuck to his back. He had a moment’s thought of what he looked like, spread across Steve’s lap like a fifty-dollar whore, pumping himself slowly up and down, his shirt hiding the arc reactor and the scars he wore, hair rumpled by Steve’s hands. . . .

“Dear god, . . .” he moaned when he bottomed out, a breathless few minutes later. For a second or two he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it. He rose up on his knees, changing his angle, and thrust a few more times, until he knew it would be good.

“So what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

Steve smiled, but it wasn’t the one from the all-time American hero; no, this was savage, untamed — and he’d brought it out into the light. Faster than he expected, Tony was on his back, his legs in the air like they weighed nothing on Steve’s shoulders, and he was getting exactly what he asked for, Rogers’ thrusting initially careful and gentle.

It didn’t take long for him to get into a rhythm, finding Tony’s prostate with unerring precision and nailing it like a carpenter at work. Hips thrusting like a smooth, oiled piston, his fingers digging into Tony’s hips to keep him still, Steve leaned into it and worked him hard. Puffing and panting, all Tony could do was hold onto him and take it, his fingers wrapped tight around Steve’s forearms, leaving bruises but unable to care.

This was _bliss_. Whether Steve had done this once or a dozen times didn’t matter in the moment; an animal instinct seemed to have risen within him, and he was giving Tony the reaming of his life. “Yes . . . go on . . . more . . . yeah, give it to me!” he goaded, wanting Steve to yield to it, to let go of his phenomenal control and just maul him.

His own cock was hard as nails, ready to burst, and he didn’t dare touch it, for fear he would lose it before Steve was ready. Not that it stopped Steve from fucking him; his eyes were closed now, his lips open against his teeth, and he frowned, focused completely on what he was doing, effortlessly plowing Tony like he had to do this right to get a passing grade.

And then, suddenly, the regular stroke was gone, and it was just Steve, trying to get even deeper inside him, pushing with fierce determination, and Tony couldn’t have held back if Fury had walked in the room and demanded they assemble. He yelled something like, “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, yes!” and came hard, every nerve shorting out, the soft, continuous murmuring of his mind blessedly silent as his muscles locked in ecstasy, words becoming sounds, unintelligible even to him, as he fought to stay conscious.

His ass spasmed as he climaxed, and Steve cried out, _“Tony!”_ his shoulders shaking as he shot stream after hot stream; Tony could feel the head jet and twitch around his tender walls. They hung there together for a long moment, before crashing back clumsily to earth, landing hard.

When Tony opened his eyes, he was crushed beneath a panting Steve Rogers, not entirely a bad thing. Most of the soldier’s weight was on Steve’s elbows, but Tony was contorted into a position most yoga masters would consider ill-advised. He couldn’t bring himself to care. After a few minutes, Steve shakily, with trembling hands, rose up, unfolded him carefully, and then collapsed again, his head pillowed on Tony’s hip, unlikely to be moving anywhere for a while.

That made Tony smile, a sense that this was _right_ snapping into his head, just before the clicking sound of a mental lock closing resounded in his mind. The constant drone of thought and creation was stunningly silent and still, and he made a mental note that sex with Steve Rogers was an antidote to its relentless voice. He ran his tingling fingers through Steve’s damp hair, needing to touch him. Steve didn’t move a muscle in response, and Tony was certain his lover was falling asleep. The bed was a mess, _he_ was a mess, so after feeling returned to his legs, he took care of the clean-up, going so far as to stumble to the bathroom and bring back a cloth to clean Steve up and discard the condom. He chuckled at the state of it: rubber stretched to capacity and worn thin. He compared the two of them, and realized that he and it were both in the same state.

Grabbing a bottle of water and Tylenol, he mumbled at Jarvis, “Put a tie on the door, J, do not disturb.”

“Understood, Sir.”

Tony pushed and shoved, just managing to get Steve off the wet spot, put a towel down, and collapse. He was curled against Steve in moments, and his mental voice still quiet, sighed in happiness, and fell asleep to the thump of Rogers’ slow and steady heartbeat.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds out about Steve and Tony and surprises himself with his reaction. The Hulk ponders sex.

**“** Jarvis, where are the guys?” Bruce asked, yawning into his hand, evening having turned to early morning while he was working. Steve’s blowout had messed with his schedule some; he had wanted to be there when Rogers woke up, to talk to him about it.

“Sir and Captain Rogers are in Sir’s room. However, there is a ‘do not disturb’ protocol in effect at the moment, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce blinked. “A _what_?”

“The privacy lock has been engaged. The equivalent of a ‘tie on the door,’ as Sir explained it to me.”

Having been standing and stretching, Bruce landed back in his chair with a heavy thudding sound as his knees gave out. “Oh.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, Jarvis. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, doctor.”

 _A tie on the door_ was a common idiom that indicated a man was having sex and not to intrude unless you wanted an eyeful — or a punch in the mouth, depending on the guy and the moment.

The implication stuck hot, tenacious tendrils into his tender heart, especially in the sensitive area where Tony Stark resided. As much as Bruce had a crush on Steve, what he felt for Tony went far beyond that, into fantasies and idle dreams. Tony had accepted him for who he was from the first minute they had met, taking no one else’s preconceptions as firm or even true. He’d poked him with an electric probe that day in the lab, peering close to see if his eyes had changed color from the shock, seeming disappointed when they hadn’t. And the way he accepted and included the Other Guy was undeniable. Stark’s efforts to bring Bruce back to life had succeeded far better than he could ever have imagined.

While he wanted Steve and Tony to be happy, he couldn’t be happy for them in that moment.

This was the second time that had been superseded by Steve Rogers, if you counted that Steve was the perfected expression of Abraham Erskine’s serum, while Bruce’s own genetic change had been a disaster of terrible magnitude. In the 2 percent tar part of his soul, there was hot, raging, jealousy about it. Now that same emotion was compounded by Bruce’s crush on Tony and the awareness that he could never be what Tony wanted or needed. His temper began to rise and he could feel the Other Guy begin to rouse.

_What?_

**Steve, Tony . . . love us?**

_Yeah, big guy. Just not the way I would like._

**Know. Want Tony for us. Smash Steve?**

Bruce tasted the flavor of the emotion the Hulk projected. Undiluted misery, the purest taste of it Bruce had ever known. He had a thought of how the Other Guy perceived feelings, and understood now that he didn’t have any of the protective mechanisms that Banner had built up over the years to deal with the powerful negative emotions he had experienced. _No wonder he’s angry._

_No. We don’t hurt our friends, even when things they do upset us._

**Don’t want smash friends. Want Banner happy. Tony and Steve make happy.**

_How do I explain this to him?_ he wondered. _We love Tony and Steve, but differently, right? Just like we like Clint and Natasha differently?_

**Ye-es.**

_Okay, good. Tony is special to us, though; we love him more than the others, in a special way._

**Yes. Make feel good way.**

_Uh-hmm._

**Like make feel good Betty?**

Bruce hesitated. _Do you mean the all the time love, or the in bed-kind of love?_

**Bed-kind make feel good. Want more bed-kind.**

_Ain’t that the truth_ , Bruce admitted to himself. _We can’t have the bed-kind, big guy. If we get too excited you come out and break the place up._

There was a long silence. Finally, he asked, **Why Betty go away?**

He hadn’t expected such a plaintive tone to the question. _Lots of reasons,_ Bruce mused; he felt the need to soothe his savage beast. _Not just you and me. Her father was crazy. We couldn’t have children together, we’d have to adopt. Couldn’t have had a home like we do now because of all the people who wanted to kill or use us. Stuff like that._

**Hurts.**

_Yeah, I know. Won’t be quite as bad as time passes._

**Promise?**

He could hear the echoes of his own voice as a child in the sad word. _So many promises broken…._

_I promise._

He was silent so long that Bruce thought he might have moved back, even if he didn’t feel it. Then, **Hulk stay in so Banner make feel goods.** On the heels of that admission, came a flood-tide of the most untainted loneliness and lust that Bruce clutched the counter with both hands to stay upright. _Okay. Take it easy. Trust me, I know how long it’s been._

**Banner bed-kind fine. But bed-kind with others better.**

He flushed when he realized that he wasn’t alone even when he masturbated.

_We’ll discuss it later._

**Always later,** the big guy muttered grumpily, but subsided. **Sound like _him_.**

Bruce went very still at that comment and considered what he could have said that would have made him sound even remotely like his bug-nuts-insane father. _No. Never him. Just me._

**Want kill Hulk.**

_I don’t want to anymore_ , he admitted, shocked by how the idea upset him now.

**Hulk good?**

_Yes, you’ve been very good._

**Like talk.**

Bruce smiled. _Me, too._

And then his presence was gone, returned to whatever subconscious area of Bruce’s brain that housed him.

And he was left with his less than cheerful thoughts and feelings.

Part of him wanted to run, to escape the pain and the probable awkward moments that would follow. But he had no doubt whatsoever that they would follow him and demand an explanation. He could lie, but Tony would never believe it unless he was cruel with it, and he just couldn’t bring himself to violate the trust that Stark had gifted to him.

Besides, there was nowhere he could go to escape himself.

Resigned to remaining in the tower, he considered the situations that would have to change if he was going to remain sane and maintain his relationships with both men.

He would have to get used to sleeping alone again. Bruce wasn’t surprised at how much that bothered him. It had become a very important part of his day, knowing that his friends would be waiting for him to join them, to talk about little things, to read, or just fall over each other and sleep. It was comfortable and kind of wicked at the same time, crushed against Steve’s beautiful bulk and gentle hands, or tucked against Tony’s restlessness, the man unable to remain still in anything other than the most exhausted sleep.

And he had to toss away his puerile fantasies. However it had happened, Bruce heavily doubted that Tony would ever let Steve walk away from him. He considered: it was kind of odd the way they fit together, especially if you watched them snap and snarl at each other in the beginning of their Avengers days. Now they seemed more likely to move in step, like two gears enmeshed and syncing smoothly. At least, that had been the case. Whether there would be more fireworks or less now that they were sharing a bed in the sexual sense was a question he couldn’t answer yet. The only question he could answer to his sad satisfaction was that Tony and Steve were both off-limits and he was feeling left out.

He tried to look on the brighter side. Tony was still his friend, his collaborator and colleague, one of the only people who could keep up with him. Stark seemed to be even more creative now that his alcohol consumption had lessened, remarkably original ideas and innovative tech concepts flowing out as they casually talked, popping up on their private shared fileserver, or in shorthand over a text. He felt flattered that Tony included him on some of these, since engineering was not his primary concentration as it was Stark’s. But as Tony often told him, Bruce’s genius wasn’t just in what he knew, it was in what he could envision and organize to come to fruition, merging biological applications to technology. It was a singular skill and one Stark valued.

He let the new reality of Steve & Tony sink deeper within. It left a sense of disappointment and loss, but he had known both since his youth and they were old companions, well-worn and sunk into deep grooves in his psyche. Deciding he might as well get used to a lonely bed again, he made his way to the elevator and his apartment, the space cold and unwelcoming without the two men he had come to appreciate as friends. He slid out of his clothes and left them on the floor, then slid between the cool, crisp sheets. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was missing being squished against Rogers, and lined up two pillows to take his place. They were poor substitutes, but he would make do with what he had.

Glancing at his phone, he noted the time: 12:19 am.

He tossed and turned a while and then looked again, expecting it to be at least 5 in the morning, but the numbers blinked back at him.

12:59.

_Oh god, this is going to be a long night._

  

Bruce had probably just fallen to sleep when his alarm woke him up, a soft chime coming from his phone bringing him out of the depths of REM sleep. Groggy and uncoordinated, he stumbled to the shower and doused himself in hot water, hoping that would help. Marginally successful, he dressed and eschewed meditation for coffee, hot and black. It wasn’t often he indulged, simply because his blood pressure had to remain at a stable level to prevent the change from happening unexpectedly, but since he’d had a few heart-to-hearts with his alter-ego, that fear was lessened, though not entirely inescapable.

The elevator took him back down to his lab, and there he remained, head sunk in models and algorithms, biochemical calculations and test tubes, scanning electron microscope and molecular modeling software, tea cups and _Peek Freans_ scattered by his monitor, lab coat hanging lopsidedly over one shoulder.

Steve’s arrival late in the afternoon with a sandwich and bottle of water shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It boggled his mind that Tony had let him loose so soon. If it had been him, he wouldn’t have gotten out of bed, nevermind the apartment, for days. He surreptitiously looked Steve over, initially expecting to see the marks of what had no doubt been explosive sex, but there weren’t any. Oh, yeah — serum. He could have smacked himself in the head for being so slow. Instead, he said, “Uh, hi, Steve. Thanks for the sandwich.”

“When you didn’t come out for breakfast or lunch, I thought I’d bring something to you. Never know when we’ll need your big brain, or the Other Guy’s brawn. Besides, Jarvis said all you’d had was tea and cookies.”

“Much appreciated,” he said, removing his glasses to rub his eyes, sadness a lowering sensation in his chest. “Been a little trapped in this experiment.”

“What is it now? Destroying the capsid coat of the flu virus?”

Bruce chuckled: Steve had actually been listening at night when he talked about what he was working on. “Actually, I’m deeply involved in a Phase I study directed at evaluating the safety profile and the immunogenicity of a particular vaccination with recombinant HIV-1 Tat and V2-deleted envelope proteins administered in association in healthy, immunologically competent adults, compared to delta-V2 envelope or Tat alone.”

Steve blinked. “Oh. Simple stuff,” he joked. “Hope it’s successful; it’s an awful disease.” He looked at him, into his eyes, and after a moment, asked, “Are you all right?’

Bruce turned away, not wanting anything he was feeling to show. He fidgeted, tapping on his keyboard lightly. “Sure. Why?”

“I don’t know if you went to bed last night or ate breakfast or lunch.”

 _What the hell do I say to that? ‘You would have, but you were fucking my best friend’?_ “You were both busy,” he replied shortly, “so I went to my place instead.” He fought for an insouciant air instead of the hurt that radiated through him. “The penthouse door was locked.” He could feel Steve’s eyes on him like a penetrating beam, reaching beneath his lab coat, to his heart and mind, into his soul.

Steve went scarlet, his pale porcelain skin flushing wildly in embarrassment. “Oh. Um, I didn’t think about that.”

Bruce could almost see Rogers castigating himself and he didn’t feel like stopping the self-flagellation at the moment. They both fell silently until, finally, Rogers asked, running a pencil around his fingers, “Tony told you, didn’t he? About us — last night?”

Bruce got up and moved around the lab, touching this and that, unable to sit still and have this conversation. “Nope. Not a word. Jarvis did.” He shrugged and chuckled, self-consciously. “I got the message pretty quickly.”

“What message was that?”

 _You sonovabitch; you’re really going to make me say it?_ He took a breath and made sure he wasn’t touching anything expensive. “That you were having sex. Together. Third parties need not apply.” _That came out far more caustic than I planned. It’s not Steve’s fault. Or Tony’s. They didn’t do anything wrong, and they most certain didn’t do anything to you,_ his conscience snarled.

Steve rocked back on his heels a little bit, eyebrows rising to his hairline, as a flush settled around his neck. “I didn’t know. About the door, that is.” Big arms crossed against his chest and Steve leaned back against Bruce’s lab table. “It was probably better that than walking in on us, though, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he snapped, unable to hide the hurt.

“So you have a problem with it.” Calm, cool, and in control, Steve was ready to confront the issues. That alone told Bruce volumes about the way he saw his relationship with Tony already. His mood began going even further south.

“Listen, Steve, let’s get something straight. I don’t have a problem with gays, lesbians, bisexual, transgender, or just plain queer people. I’m too strange myself to be hypocritical about people’s choices.” He took a breath. “As long as you and Tony are happy, good to each other, and for each other, I’ll support you.”

“Then why are you so annoyed at me?”

“I’m not,” he growled, but actually, he was boiling, a red haze covering his eyes.

Steve pursed his lips and turned around to confront him. His blue eyes widened. “Your eyes are green.”

 _Calm down, you,_ he told the Other Guy. _We can’t break up my lab._

A wash of conflicting and escalating emotions crashed into him, anger, hurt, and loneliness the strongest.

_I know. But destroying my space won’t make us feel better. And Steve’s our friend._

Slowly, the other presence faded, but Bruce was trembling with the nearness of it. “Just go, Steve. Okay? Just go. We’ll talk about it later.”

“All right, if that’s what you want. But I think you should know, Bruce – for the longest time, I thought Tony was with _you_.”

Bruce banged his forehead against the nearest wall. _Fuck._ “Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

The last strand of patience he had left broke with a _ping!_ of snapping guywires. “God dammit, Steve, stop being so fucking virtuous!” he snarled, rounding on him, sticking a finger into Steve’s broad chest to emphasize his point. “I can’t give Tony anything more than friendship. The risk of the Other Guy emerging is just too great. I can’t even get irritated without him popping up to check everything out. So just leave it, okay? Leave it the fuck alone and let me cool off.”

The soldier wasn’t even remotely fazed by his rage. “As long as you admit you’re angry.”

Bruce counted to ten. And then again. By the third time, he thought he had his voice under control. “Ohh, Rogers, you don’t have a clue how furious I am. _But it’s not at you._ ”

Steve said nothing, just watched him and waited.

“Talk to Tony. He’ll explain it to you, or you’ll explain it to him, or whatever. Just get the fuck out of my lab and leave me alone long enough to chill my ass out before we have a big green scare right in the middle of Manhattan!”

“Maybe you should let him out. He might tell me the truth.”

Bruce watched Steve relax even further, his body at parade-rest, one wrist clasped by the other hand. His eyes were that cool and serene pale, pale, blue that happened when he was completely invested in the outcome. _Crap._

“Not in my fucking lab, damn it! There’s hundreds-of-thousands-of-dollars-worth of equipment in here.”

He pursed his lips, but finally, _finally,_ moved to go. “We’ll talk later.”

“Right, later,” Bruce told him, waving him out with one hand, and holding onto a stool back with the other. The metal was cold, and his hand hurt from the pressure he was applying. When he looked down, the chair back wore the indents so deeply he could see the singular swirls of his fingerprints.

Twenty minutes later, just as the haze of rage had dissipated, Stark stormed into his lab and confronted him, spinning him around and putting a hard hand on his shoulder. “What the fuck did you say to Steve, Banner?”

He was in no mood for this. “To get out! Like you should,” he said, shrugging off Tony’s hand and planting his in the middle of Stark’s back to usher him out the lab door. But obviously getting rid of Tony Stark was an art form Bruce hadn’t quite mastered yet, because he slipped away from him and turned.

Tony changed gears, tone both cajoling and confiding. “Listen, Bruce — last night . . . wasn’t entirely planned. I should have given you a heads-up that I was making my move, but if it fell apart, I didn’t want to have to try and explain it today.”

“So instead, you let Jarvis do your dirty work. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Tony stood flat-footed before him, his mouth slightly open in surprise. He smiled. “Nice to see you fight back, Dr. Banner. Steve said you were furious, but I didn’t pay enough attention. He’s pretty upset, by the way, though I doubt he let it show.”

“After fucking for one night, you can tell?”

Tony’s smile widened. “You really are jealous, Doctor! That green color is not the Hulk, by the way. But the question is, of whom? Me or Steve?”

Bruce blew out a deep breath. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He said and I quote, ‘You should know that Bruce is hurt by us being together last night’. That true?”

His anger expended, all there was left was sadness. “What if it is? Doesn’t matter. I know that you want Steve, and the better part of me is thrilled for you. I also know that I’m not relationship material, and that sex with me could have explosive repercussions beyond climax.”

Tony sat down on Bruce’s lab stool, frowning at the marks he’d left in the high-stress metal. “I always planned on having this conversation with you. It’s just that the timing never seemed right.” He sighed and waved a negligent hand. “You’re my best friend. And there could be more than purely platonic affection for you in me, I don’t deny it.” His mahogany eyes were bright, sparkling with his honest emotions, and Bruce was truly glad to see his happiness. “But I love Steve.” The words resonated in the still air between them. “I didn’t even admit how much to myself until now. It’s different from anyone else; he’s gorgeous, yeah, but it’s so much more than that. I adore him, and he fits inside me so well, so completely . . . I don’t know if I can find the right words to explain it, even, nevermind define it.” Tony grimaced. “Knowing us, though, we’ll probably still fight like cats and dogs; he’ll irritate me with his righteousness and I’ll aggravate him with my arrogance, and we’ll rub along somehow. We haven’t had the time to talk about it yet, so who knows what the hell will happen.” He pushed that aside with another frown. “I’m not worried about him and me right now. I am, however, really, deeply, truly worried about you. So is Steve.”

Bruce gave him a wry, deprecatory smile. “Don’t. I won’t go off a roof for _you_.”

Tony’s smile was a fake, gleaming in warning. “Don’t bullshit me, Banner. Deflection, avoidance, display, denial, anger, self-harm — I’ve done them all and have the scars to prove it. Just talk to me. We can do that; we always have before.”

He tried to downplay his feelings. “Look, Tony, it’s been a long time since anyone cared whether I lived or died. Then you come along and want me to be your science buddy, ask me to live in your Tower, and essentially make it possible for me to restart my life and career, supporting me however I need. Both of you have been there, from the beginning. You stood up to Ross and nearly died for it. It was inevitable I would develop a crush. Don’t make more of it than it is.”

“Nice try.” His voice went deep, dropping an octave, and sending a brutal shiver over Bruce’s skin. “I don’t deny we’ve been good for you, but that’s not all it is. Whatever feelings you and I have towards each other are real. Don’t belittle them.”

Bruce threw his hands up in the air. “I just can’t win with you, Stark!”

“No, darling, you can’t win without me,” he said, voice soft and gentle, but definitely intimate and coolly carnal. “Don’t push us away. Not yet. We’re good for you. Let us keep doing it.”

“You and Steve need time together. I don’t want to be a gooseberry.”

Tony laughed. “Not a word I’ve heard since when? Boarding school, maybe? We’ll keep our PDA’s to a minimum, promise. Just . . . come back to us.”

“I can’t imagine that you want me around.”

“Then you’d be wrong.”

It was the complete honesty in Tony’s voice that caught him off guard and in a vulnerable moment he nodded agreement.

“I was thinking . . . if Steve and I are in my place then we’re probably doing the horizontal tango. Or the vertical foxtrot. Or the—”

“I get the gist, thanks.”

“Oh, yeah.” Tony actually blushed and Bruce chuckled. He couldn’t help it. Suave, sensual, sophisticate Anthony Stark was turning red over all the things he wanted to do with Steve Rogers, indisputable sexual neophyte. It was hilarious. “Anyway, if we’re in my place, then we want to be alone. If we’re at your place or his, then all hands on deck. Got me?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice uncertain. “Two choices, hmm. Could it be more complex, do you think, than nuclear thermodynamics?”

Tony jabbed him in the ribs with a hard finger. “Har, har. As you told me, don’t quit your day job.” He reached past Bruce and picked up his sandwich, biting into it with relish. “Ooh, a chicken parmesan hero with that special sauce Steve makes and fresh mozzarella from that hole-in-the-wall market he loves in Little Italy.” He licked his finger, where some of the sauce had leaked out. “I think he likes you.”

“I’m already tired of this conversation. Say something sexy and sciency quick, before I fall asleep.”

“I want to know what SHIELD did with Ross. Steve said he’d been captured and locked up, but I want all the juicy details. Want to help me find out?”

Bruce’s chuckle was a dark thing. “Is that even a question? Who are you and what have you done with Tony Stark, pain in the ass to all things SHIELD?”

The engineer rubbed his hands together in glee, and using Bruce’s terminal, began the interface with SHIELD, then input the codes that would allow Jarvis to bypass the encryption and data-safe walls, and give them Nick Fury’s access to all the restricted files. Tony had copied the system set-up from Fury’s ident file and had used it to find Phil Coulson months ago. Now, they moved on to the file that read: _ROSS [DD, U.S. Army], Gen. Thaddeus._

After a few minutes reading, Tony whistled. “Wow. Remind me not to piss Pepper off. She sued him for everything but his socks.”

“And when she tried to turn the money around to give it to Betty, she refused it,” Bruce said, his voice low and stunned.

“So Pepper put it in a trust fund for the baby,” Tony muttered. “Smart.”

 _Baby?_ Bruce’s mind went blank and stayed there, while Stark kept on talking.

“He even lost his pension. Do you get social security benefits in prison?” he mused. “I don’t know these things. Too bad he won’t have a roommate to make his life as miserable as he made yours for so long. Bruce? Bruce, you with me?”

 _Baby?_ “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I gotta run. Experiment running.”

Tony tilted his head and gave him a questioning look. “Sure. But we’re kind of _in_ your lab.”

“Right. Of course we are.” He tried to smile, and worried it came out lopsided. “I should get back to it.”

_Baby? What baby?_

_And why didn’t Betty tell me?_


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has momentary doubts, but erases them later in private moments with Tony.

Steve was sitting quietly in Tony’s lab that evening, comfortably situated on the long lounge chair that Stark often slept on when he was too tired to make it to bed. He was scribbling a plan for a new field exercise for the team and thinking about Tony and Bruce at the same time. When he assigned Hawkeye and Thor to five separate points of attack without relief, he put the paper in his back pocket and thought about the two men who were on his mind.

What had happened last night had changed things, not just between Tony and him, but between all of them. Bruce’s undeniable jealousy was an issue that skewed the stability of their pyramid arrangement, he and Stark being the legs, leaving the high point for Banner to scale. Considering the argument/discussion of this afternoon, he tried to put himself in Bruce’s position. It didn’t take a genius to understand why he was in pain. No doubt he felt left out and alone, now that he and Tony were . . . were what?

Stark had run out the door to a meeting at the crack of dawn in response to a summons from Pepper, an explosion at a SI facility in Princeton requiring his attention. Since then, they had found little time to talk. Steve had caught up with Stark when he’d returned, and advised him of the discussion with Banner, only to have Tony storm off in pursuit of the scientist. Deciding that his presence would not help the situation at that moment, he’d remained behind.

But the primary question would not be avoided. What were he and Tony? He’d heard of the term ‘friends with benefits,’ but didn’t see that as relating to them. For one thing, Steve knew himself to be possessive of those he cared about, wanting to be involved in their wellbeing and happiness. Would Tony allow that with him? Would he want it, or would he see his need to care for him as stifling or controlling?

What did he want with Steve, besides the ‘ _astonishingly fabulous sex’_? Was there anything else? He _thought_ he had seen more in Tony’s eyes as he had held him after his emotional meltdown on New Year’s Eve. But he had been so twisted up that night, he wasn’t sure how correct his perceptions were.And when he had woken, Bruce had been there, confusing Steve more.

Yesterday, Tony’s intentions seemed clear again. Clear? Okay, maybe not so clear. But a helluva lot more than a kiss happened between them. Was that what Tony wanted? And more than that — what did Steve himself want? Yes, the sex was blow-your-head-off great. What Stark didn’t know about sex, Steve probably didn’t want to know either. He hoped Tony would want more, just as he did.

Steve knew he wasn’t a casual kind of guy; if he was in, he was _in_ , without reservation. It seemed as though they had put the cart before the horse by having sex before even dating, but to tell the truth, he felt like every day they spent time together was a date of sorts. Sparring with Stark in the gym, going with him to different restaurants to try food Steve had never had before, various movie nights with members of the team or without, shopping for clothes that wouldn’t make Steve look like a ‘fashion disaster’ or a ‘throwback to grandpa Stark’ . . . time in the lab, with Tony working and Steve drawing, quiet except for the hum of Stark’s technology and the various mechanistic sounds of Dum-E and You, the ‘bots behavior either intriguing their creator or driving him daft with irritation.

Rogers admitted that he loved those nights the best. Watching Tony work his magic was an extraordinary gift, one that only a handful of people would ever get to see. He didn’t allow interns, grad students, or even lab assistants into this most-private space, the one where the majority of his mental and physical work was done. The only people whose hands he’d use were Bruce’s and Steve’s. He wasn’t even sure whether Rhodey would be allowed here, but considering he had the War Machine armor and hearing the story of how it had been acquired, he must have had access to the lab in Malibu.

Steve liked to settle down on the lounge chair and sketch, finding the effervescent Stark was at his best while calm and focused on his work, moving from workspace to workspace, configuring templates with Jarvis, texting Bruce about applications and program lines, calling Pepper to just annoy her, and discussing various ways to irritate Fury with Barton’s collusion. Of all the spaces in Avengers Tower, Steve found this area the most comfortable outside of his own apartment and the common rooms. It resonated with Tony’s energy, frenetic and excitable, but brilliant and cool at the same time.

As he sat here now, hands stilling their movements, he considered his present situation with Tony. This had been his first moment to really think since his breakdown on New Year’s Eve. He had spent the night in Tony’s apartment, the other man slipping in and out to bring him clothes so he hadn’t needed to go back to the scene of his devastation. He was ashamed of his loss of control, bitterly embarrassed by it, in fact. He’d destroyed the only home he had — the one that Tony had been so generous as to give him. A frown crossed his face, and he quietly put his pencils and pad together. There were few personal items in his space, simply because he had so little to begin with, but the piece he had done for Tony, to attempt in some small way to thank him for his ‘tutoring’ in all things 21st century was there, jumped to the forefront of his mind. Panicked, he had to know, immediately, that it was safe, that his madness hadn’t damaged it in some way.

He was in his apartment less than five minutes later, standing amid the complete ruins of what had once been a beautiful, clean and welcoming living space. Someone had been in here; the appliances were gone, and the cabinets too, Stark’s staff clearly starting the clean-up, but the bedroom was a disaster area. He’d torn the mattress completely apart, foam and wood decorated the floor, and the bedding was torn and in shreds. All the drawers had been broken from the bureau and the closet door torn from its hinges and snapped in two.

And worse. The painting he had done for Tony, to thank him, lay on the floor. The stretcher bars had been snapped into large, but useless pieces, and the canvas itself was rent into strips that hung lifelessly from what was left of the frame, its colors and patterns a kaleidoscope of wanton destruction.

He collapsed onto the floor with the canvas in his hand, staring down at it in sadness and grief. He remembered that night, the pain, the desolation, and the concrete rage at himself for forgetting Bucky’s special day. In his pain, he had destroyed something he had created, the birthing process of creation so integral to himself, his inner self, that it felt as if someone had died to see it so ruined. All the work he had put into it, the affection, the desire to make Tony happy by giving him something only he could. . . .

That was before they had come together, to admit the feelings that had been so strong between them since the first day. It was inevitable, Steve supposed; they had stirred sparks from their first conversation, Tony’s learned suspicion versus Steve’s inherent focus on the mission causing them to see opposite ends of the same issue — that Fury was a spy, trained to lie for a living. The words they had spewed at each other on the helicarrier had been previously silent, somehow given freedom and voice by the chip of the Tesseract in Loki’s staff. Their apologies had been muttered, embarrassed things, but the handshake behind it had been real enough and renewed their spark until it had burst into the flame that burnt him so beautifully every time they touched.

Yet today, when Tony had returned from the meeting he’d had, the first thing he had done was not talk to Steve. He went to Bruce. Again he had to wonder, was there more to Tony and Bruce than he had originally believed? Were they, or had they been, a pair?

All of a sudden, Brad Franklin’s voice rang in his head. “You know, Steve, I don’t mind taking Stark’s cast-offs. They take up most of the known world anyway.” He’d given a conspiratorial wink and tucked his business card into Steve’s hand, where it had burned like a stolen wallet.

Was Bruce one of Tony’s cast-offs? Had they been intimate before Steve moved in? Could they, with the Hulk involved? Was that why Tony had been so adamant about Bruce and he sleeping together with him? So he could have both nearby? Had Bruce’s suicide attempt been entirely due to Betty’s marriage? Were they laughing together over his naïveté?

 _No. Never._ He knew their hearts; such cruelty wasn’t in them.

He wadded up the destroyed canvas and frame and tossed it into a nearby black garbage bag, disgusted with his own violence.

His heart returned to the question — what did he want? He wanted what he had; wasn’t that the key to happiness? He wanted Tony Stark as a friend, teammate, and lover. If it could ever be more than that, he’d take with both hands, but he wouldn’t insist on it. Tony was commitment-shy; his escapades with both women and men only underlined how traumatic the emotional break-up with Pepper would have been for him.

Being realistic Steve admitted that they could fight like alley cats sometimes. Communication between them could be spotty and unintentionally sharp. Stark could be arrogant and disdainful. Steve knew himself to be stubborn to a fault.

But there was so much good to outweigh the bad that he realized he’d made a decision before he’d even clarified the question in his own mind, his own heart.

Satisfied, Steve got to his feet, and began to work on a new sketch to replace the one he’d destroyed. After an hour, he glanced at the clock and cursed softly. He was meeting Coulson for dinner. The senior field agent and SHIELD liaison to the Avengers had returned to his job the first of January, and was no doubt wading through various piles of paperwork.

He took the ④ express train to 14th Street then walked to Houston and LaGuardia, stopping in front of a place Phil had suggested, the Silver Spurs diner. The inside was pure diner in southwestern colors of sage green and desert yellow offset by chrome and glass. It was busy and noisy, energized in a way that only Greenwich Village could be, stuffed full of people eating, drinking and talking, coats, hats, and scarves overflowing chairs and hooks. He saw a stray red glove on the floor moments before a woman picked it up. Finding Coulson in the back, by the emergency exit, Steve smiled and waved, making his way through the crowded space and tightly situated tables, apologizing as he slid through.

“Hiya, Steve,” Phil said, standing up to shake his hand. “How about a sarsaparilla? They have the real thing here.”

“Really? That’d be great.” He dropped his coat over the chair back; the temperature had been hovering around the eight-degree mark, so he’d grabbed his bomber jacket. “You look good,” he told the agent, smiling at him in pleasure. “How do you feel?”

Coulson’s blue eyes looked out of a tanned face, courtesy of a stealthy trip with Clint to a Grecian isle. He had regained most of the weight he’d lost, but there was definitely more muscle than Steve remembered from before. He still had that ‘everyman’ face, quietly attractive but strangely average unless you knew the man. His poise and charisma was understated, but that made it all the more potent. “I feel wonderful. I have more energy than I know what to do with.”

Steve smiled again, pleased. He’d lost so many. If he could just have one back, he was glad it was Phil Coulson. He wasn’t sure how well Black Widow or Hawkeye would have fared without his capable direction. And there were so many things Steve wanted to talk with him about; that cool, calm demeanor invited confidences and he already knew that Coulson’s loyalty couldn’t be bought.

He looked down at the menu, smiling at its whimsy. “What’re you having?”

“The Salada Shrimpsie.”

Steve chuckled, and after giving the menu a swift glance, looked up at the now-hovering waiter, a young man of college age with a streak of sunset pink in his black hair and a goatee like Stark’s. He had a wide, friendly smile, and Steve noticed the eyeliner highlighting the lime green eyes. Clearing his throat, he ordered. “I’ll have the Tex-Mex chili as an appetizer, Jorge’s meatloaf, a baked potato with cheese and broccoli, and the veggies of the day. Oh, and a sarsaparilla.”

“Eating light?” Phil asked him, teasing gently as he sipped his water after he’d ordered his meal.

“Something like that.” When the food came, they ate and talked about sports, the ridiculous amount of money athletes were paid these days, the tiny allocation of the nation’s GNP directed to education, and their mutual dislike of anything Glenn Beck had to say.

“Listen, Phil, I have a couple of things I’d like to talk with you about.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I’m not paid by SHIELD—”

“You could be if you accepted the job title of advisor. Not a bad paycheck, so I’m told.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head, chewing a broccoli floret. “No, thanks. My point is, I have all this back-pay from the army, and I have no idea what to do with it.”

Phil sipped his drink. “Contact Pepper. She’ll be able to send you the names of the best financial advisors.”

Steve frowned. “I don’t like to bother her; she’s got a big company to run.”

Coulson rolled his eyes. “Steve. The rumor mill tells me that you have managed to get Stark to cut down on his intoxicating ways. She’d give you a kidney if you wanted one.”

He laughed. “The rumor mill has a big mouth. But, okay, I’ll leave her a message.”

“What else?”

“I don’t quite know how to ask this. . . .”

“You just open your mouth and the words fall out,” Phil told him, signaling the waiter for coffee. Steve had demolished his meal and the dishes were removed.

“You and Clint are together, right?”

His expression didn’t change one iota. “What did Clint tell you?”

“Nothing. It’s just a feeling I had. It’s how he talks about you, how he looks at you, the way he was all but living at your apartment while you were getting better. . . just stuff like that.”

The agent smiled. “You would have made a good spy, Steve.”

“No, thanks. I’m bad at following orders. It’s a character flaw.”

Coulson laughed. “If you have a flaw, that wouldn’t be it.”

“So, I’m right?”

“Yes.” Phil wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Almost dying puts a lot of things into their proper perspective. I know it did for Clint and me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “SHIELD’s non-fraternization rules are on the books for a reason, but I would have resigned rather than give up what I gained with Clint after the surgery. I was his handler in the field for years before the Avengers Initiative went into effect.” He drew his finger in a pattern over the rim of his water glass. “It took months to gain his respect; years to obtain his friendship, invite his loyalty, and fight for his trust. More than a decade passed where I led him down the right road, to where affection and mutual fondness could turn to love.” He looked up, right into Steve’s eyes, his own full of satisfaction. “We’re not fancy sort of men; what we have is what we both need, and it feeds us in ways that would leave others starving. I knew it the first moment I laid eyes on him, and there hasn’t been a day from then to now that I regret all the damned hard work it took to make him mine. I have no intention of having any rulebook take him away from me.”

Steve smiled widely. “I’m happy for you both. I have to wonder, though — how did Fury take it?”

He shrugged. “Like you’d expect; there was a lot of yelling. We didn’t care. Clint and I would both walk away before being separated.”

Rogers understood that kind of loyalty. “SHIELD cannot afford to lose you or Barton. Fury’s no fool; he’ll either overlook your relationship, or make the changes that’ll keep you with the organization.”

“Pretty much,” Coulson agreed amiably. “Clint’s arguing for changes to the non-fraternization rule.”

Steve chuckled. “Of course he is. He’s a natural agitator.”

They were quiet for a long moment, while Steve figured out how he wanted to approach his next topic. “What does the rumor mill say about me?”

Phil leaned back in his chair and was quiet for a few minutes. “That you’re sleeping with Stark and Banner — platonically, that is, and apparently taking on the role of nightmare police.”

“That’s true. What else?”

Phil frowned. “That’s it; there’s nothing else. And by the way, you never did tell me what set you off on New Year’s. We tried to find you, even attempted to track the GPS on your phone, but the battery was dead or something. It wasn’t until Jarvis let me know that you were home that I pulled the troops back in, calmed down, and went to bed.”

“Sorry,” Steve replied, face flushing. “I never meant to worry you.”

Phil nodded. “I know. Can you tell me what happened?”

He let out a sigh and fiddled with the tablecloth. “New Year’s Eve was Bucky’s birthday. The . . . reminder didn’t sit so well.”

Coulson frowned. “Is it something you want to talk with a professional about?”

He drank his sarsaparilla. Everybody these days seemed to want to send him to a shrink. _Do I seem that off-balance?_ “You know, or should know, that I didn’t do really well with all the therapists that SHIELD tried to make me see. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“But something has?”

“Yes. And I want to talk about it with you. I just don’t know to bring it up.”

Phil blinked and bit his lip. “Why?”

“It’s . . . personal.”

The agent didn’t move, didn’t react at all but for a slight softening of his eyes. After a few minutes, he said, “I’m your friend, Steve. I won’t talk about your personal stuff with anyone else, not even Clint.”

It took a few false starts, but he finally managed to blurt the words out. “Tony and I . . . New Year’s Eve . . . we slept together.”

There was a pause, and then, “I take it that there wasn’t much actual sleep involved?”

Though Phil’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, Steve went scarlet in response. “Not much, no.”

“Did he hurt you?”

For a moment Steve had a vision of Coulson descending on Stark like some avenging angel, and chuckled. “Not at all.”

“He was good to you?”

“He was great to me.”

The tension in Coulson’s shoulders relaxed. “So then what’s the question?”

“I think you already answered it. I just wanted to know how you managed to catch a guy like Clint Barton and hold onto him.”

Phil looked down for a moment at his hands and then back at Steve. “You know Clint had a pretty crummy childhood?”

“Yeah. Orphanage, abusive fosters, ran away with his brother to the circus, learned the bow, got in trouble when his brother started going from petty burglary to grand larceny, lived on the streets until he entered the military.”

Phil nodded. “That’s all true. After he was recruited, he went through every other handler at SHIELD. He was a major pain in the ass and Fury was getting desperate, so they gave him to me to supervise.” He took a drink. “He was a tough nut, let me tell you; a ballbuster, an irreverent practical joker, but an undeniably brilliant field agent. He’s cool, calm, able to problem-solve on the fly, take what’s dished out, and come back for more until the job’s done.” Coulson’s smile fell. “The only thing that’s soft on Clint is his heart. I figured that a guy who’d been abused by pretty much everyone he trusted, would need to know that there was someone who would always have his back. And that someone would be me.”

“So you determined the one thing that Clint needed more than any other and gave it to him.”

“Pretty much. Granted, I didn’t start out expecting to fall in love with the guy. Initially, I just wanted to get him to listen to orders occasionally. But it didn’t take long for me to see that he was much more than just another damaged smart-ass field agent. I got to see what made Barton extraordinary, and it’s not just his skills with a bow or gun.”

Steve smiled.

“Does that help?”

“You know, I think it does. Thanks.”

“Any time, Steve. Any time. Oh, and I’m not the rumor mill, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

His smile widened. “It’s Natasha, doing what I asked her to.”

“What?” Coulson looked like he’d been taken completely by surprise. “Why?”

“It’s simple. If Fury gets information from one of his own, a SHIELD spy, he’s not likely to question it too much. He gets what he wants — news about the team and how we’re getting along — and we prevent him from attempting to insert someone who wouldn’t be quite so careful about what he or she passes along, protecting our privacy.”

Coulson’s eyes danced. “Counter-intelligence. That positively Machiavellian, Steve.”

The soldier chuckled. “I know. It’s strange, but no one expects it from me; that’s why it works.”

They talked over their meals and Steve picked up the check. Phil walked him to the nearest train station, and they shook hands and said goodbye. The train was fairly empty, and for all that it was an express, it moved at a snail’s pace, leaving him plenty of time to think.

_What can I give to a guy like Tony Stark that no one else could?_

Tony had so much already, absolutely anything that money could buy, and the best of it. He was famous or infamous, depending upon your viewpoint. He’d been a celebrity since he could walk, the son of the amazing Howard Stark, a genius who at a tender age began creating the artificial intelligence he called Jarvis; there were so many patents and discoveries in his name that Tony had stopped counting and also put a moratorium on accepting any more awards. He’d had sex with the most beautiful and talented of men and women . . . but they were casual.

Stark avoided intimacy like it would contaminate him. He kept his friends at an emotional distance; he’d been told that neither Rhodey nor Pepper had known when Tony was dying of palladium poisoning. And he seemed surprised when Pepper had been unable to handle his risking his life as Iron Man; she loved him, but couldn’t stand by and watch.

Still, it was obvious to Steve that Tony craved affection and needed the love of his team and his friends, in lieu of the family and lover he had lost.

Steve had money, but it was as nothing next to Stark’s wealth. He had fame, though he didn’t want it. He had no friends other than his team, no family left. As for lovers, Tony was his only one, and for him, there was nothing casual about it.

His breath steamed out of him as he headed for the Tower, wondering if Tony would be able to take the time to talk now. He glanced at his watch, a SHIELD logo in the center, and noted the time: 0930.

As he entered the Tower elevator, Jarvis said, “Sir has been waiting for you, Captain Rogers. He is in the secure lab.”

Steve clicked the proper button on the console and the lift shot upwards.

“Sir says to meet him in his apartment, Captain Rogers.” Dutifully, Steve tapped the floor number and he was deposited there. Tony was just coming up the stairs when he arrived. Steve couldn’t help the tingle of anticipation as Stark walked towards him with a smile on his handsome face. He was in torn jeans and a grimy tee shirt, hair a little askew from his hands being in it while he thought.

“Hey. How was dinner with Agent?”

“Good.”

Tony leaned up, grabbed Steve’s shoulders and kissed him, hard and hungry, his mouth going soft after Steve locked his arms around him. They pulled back and stared at each other.

“Hi,” Steve breathed.

“Hi back,” Tony said, his eyes shining. “Missed you.”

“A lot or a little?”

“Too much for words,” he teased, kissing him again, a tender brush of lips.

“How did it go with Bruce?”

“I think he’ll be okay with us,” he advised with a sigh. “The situation is _awk-ward_ , but we’re all big boys. I think we can handle it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, when we’re here in the penthouse, it’s just you and me. Otherwise, we keep our usual routine.” Tony saw something in his face and continued, “We can’t just bail on the guy, Steve. He needs us.”

He nodded his understanding, but there was a touch of the green-eyed monster tightening his stomach.

Steve stepped back and away, removing his jacket, and giving himself time to formulate a response that wouldn’t start an immediate fight. “I think I can’t reply until I know just what it is you want from me.” He pushed a hand between them, indicating a circle with his finger. “From _us_.”

Tony’s head tilted to the side in the manner of an experiment that was defying expectations. “Are there limits?”

“Limits? On what? What are you talking about?”

The engineer fiddled with a piece of tech that was lying on his table, avoiding Steve’s eyes. “I mean, what can I have?”

“What do you want?” Steve asked, exasperated. He remembered his conversation with Coulson. What could he give Stark that he didn’t already have?

“Everything. All of you.” Tony appeared perplexed by the question.

Steve took a breath and then another. He hadn’t realized that “all” was an option.

“Steve? You okay?” Tony’s voice was tight with anxiety. “Was that not what you wanted to hear? I mean, I know I’m not prime relationship material, and in non-ice years I’m older than you are, and you could have anyone, and why would you want a—”

“Tony! Breathe!”

“I am breathing! I’m just having a minor panic attack while I do it!”

He decided to interrupt the sudden spurt of insecurity by kissing Tony, taking his mouth in what he hoped was a sweet, romantic kiss, his arms wrapped tightly around him, keeping Tony attached to his chest while he re-learned the incredible taste and texture of Tony’s lips. It was a heady sensation, knowing he could do this now, any time he wanted. And he _wanted_.

“Everything?” he whispered, when he finally lifted his head.

Tony nodded, lips red and wet, eyes wide and dark with desire.

“Then I want all of you, too. I never dreamt that I could have someone like you,” he kissed his mouth, “so brave,” eyes, “so generous,” nose, which crinkled adorably, “so _smart_.”

“In case you’re wondering,” Tony told him, voice low and amazingly intimate in the narrow space between their lips, “I kind of, sort of, fell in love with you.”

“When?” Steve asked, astonished by the ready admission. _With me?_

Tony shrugged. “Maybe when you got so angry about what Brad Franklin had to say about me. Maybe when you stood up for Bruce against Ross and insisted SHIELD back us up. Or, maybe when you played catch with the Hulk.” His eyes were far away for a moment. “I don’t know. I just know that when you came apart on me, I had to be there to catch you. It _had_ to be me, only me. I couldn’t trust anyone else to take care of you better than I could, and would, if you just let me.”

“You want to take care of me?”

Tony nodded, expression tight and still worried.

“Well, I think we’ve been dating since Arlington,” Steve told him, smiling softly. “Only you could pick up a guy up in a cemetery, Tony.”

“And only you would go to a cemetery on your birthday, Steve.” He brushed a finger across Steve’s cheek, an affectionate caress. “It was just too depressing. I couldn’t let you wade through that kind of pain by yourself.”

“Thank you for that. It mattered. You matter.” Steve realized with a spurt of terror around the region of his heart, that he was afraid to make the same declaration of love yet. While he knew he had strong feelings for Tony, he wanted some time to confirm that Stark’s feelings were as real as he believed them to be . . . especially when Tony seemed so concerned about what Bruce wanted too. “So much.”

Stark didn’t seem to expect anything more, and Steve relaxed slightly against him.

“Come on, babe,” Tony whispered. “I need to touch you.”

Though he still had questions about where he and Tony were going in the future, his body had no such reservations. He followed where Stark led, back to the wide bed where they had found so much pleasure just hours ago. The sheets had been changed to a red silk and when the gold comforter was tossed back, they glowed in the light. He slid out of his pants and pulled his tee shirt and button down over his head in one move, tossing them to the side, not caring where they fell. He wanted this, needed it, a physical confirmation of what they had just shared in words.

Tony’s eyes were dark with heat, licking his lips as he looked at Steve. “You’re just so fucking gorgeous.” His voice was soft. “How am I supposed to handle all that beauty?”

Steve smirked. “By touching it, genius. Fast.”

“Oh, no — there’s no rushing with you. I want to enjoy every pulse-pounding, heart-wrenching, muscle straining minute of it,” he added, stroking a tight pectoral, before grasping Steve’s hips and pulling him closer. “I want to worship at this altar of perfection.”

“If you don’t move quicker, I’ll be a _wrinkled_ altar of perfection.”

Tony laughed. “Savor. Enjoy. Trust me.”

Steve laughed, too, but it was smothered beneath Tony’s mouth, a sensual slide of his tongue along Steve’s lower lip, until he bit down just a little, giving pressure but no pain. It was stunning, just how arousing that possessive touch was, how owned it made him feel. He opened his mouth in surprise, only to have Stark take advantage, his tongue invading Steve’s mouth, teaching by example just what he liked. Always a quick learner, it wasn’t long before Steve was giving as much as taking, his hunger growing with each stroke of lip and tongue, each sip of that essential Tony that aroused him more than anything he’d ever known. He would always know him by the metallic spice that gave a kick of fire, the way he moaned softly against Steve’s mouth, pulled against his hands as much as he leaned against him and into the heat of their mutual desire.

Wanting to know more, to learn what Tony liked everywhere else, Steve picked Tony up by his hips and moved him closer to the bed. As his lips moved to suck on the tender skin of Tony’s throat, pushing Stark’s head up, he began to undo Tony’s pants, not surprised that Stark was naked beneath the well-worn cotton. Tony slid out of them with a shimmy that raised Steve’s temperature and he stroked the solid hips, his thumbs finding the natural indents and teasing the skin there until Tony moaned. Steve grasped the tee shirt and began to pull upwards.

“Leave it. Nothing to see.”

Steve pulled back and looked at him, seeing the uncertainty and insecurity beneath the brash exterior. “All of you,” he reminded softly, looking down and into Tony’s eyes, hoping to counter whatever demons were sticking their pitchforks into the man he desired.

“Not beautiful,” he admitted.

“It will be to me,” Steve insisted, and in a sharp, quick movement removed the shirt, leaving Stark completely, gloriously naked before him, against him. While Steve was completely bare of chest hair, Tony had a light, silky thatch on chest and belly that brushed against his nipples with hairs like individual fingers, taunting him to play with them. It was there his hands roamed first, initially ignoring the orange-sized arc reactor buried in the center of Stark’s chest. “Feels so good,” Steve said, kissing Tony’s mouth, easing the tension he could feel under his hands and against his body.

Using his greater weight, he gently pressed Tony down to the bed, holding him like something infinitely precious until he was on top of the comforter, then climbing on and over him, enjoying the way Tony’s body hair felt against his skin. The arc reactor was bright, its glow a subdued blue-white behind its protective casing, only a slight heat radiating from it to his fingers. The metal edge of it, the part that was sunk deep past Tony’s breastbone was body temperature and dry, the skin at its border deeply and thickly scarred, rigid lines indicating the initial cuts that Yinsen must have made in his attempt to save Stark’s life. Remarkable that he had been able to do anything so complex with only bailing wire, rough cotton thread and needle, a pair of pliers, a knife, a car battery and some electrical wire. It was a constant wonder to Steve that Tony had not only survived such rough treatment and brutal torture, but had come out of it relatively unbroken, though understandably haunted by his experiences.

He brushed his lips against the scars, tracing them with his tongue, respecting the pain and the evidence of it, and thanking God that Tony had survived to find _him_ , so that they could have this moment together.

“You don’t have to. It’s ugly—”

“I could do this every day for the rest of our lives and it wouldn’t be enough,” Steve replied, wanting Tony to understand. “You’re beautiful to _me_. Every mark, every scar is just a reminder that this could have gone another way and I never would have had the chance to know you. _This_ ,” he said as he tapped the reactor, “and your big, gorgeous brain saved you for me. And I’ll thank God fasting that he gave you back, for me to find, for me to have like this.”

Tony’s fingers brushed his face again, and there were tears in his mahogany eyes. “I love you, Steve, I swear I do. And it scares me stupid some moments, and scares me brave in others, because I _want_ to be the man you see in me: the hero, the lover, the friend. The labels I’ve given myself . . . they aren’t enough anymore. I want you to be proud of me, to love me, to see the man I should have been without my dad’s disinterest and Obie’s exploitation. I need to be that man that everyone can see in me, but me.” He blinked and wiped his eyes with a hand. “And now I sound like a _Hallmark_ moment.”

Steve kissed him then, until the sudden tension was wiped away by his lips, his touch, the way he settled between Tony’s legs like he had always belonged here. _This is what I can give to him._ “You don’t get it, baby.” He whispered against Tony’s mouth. “You already are that man to me.”

Tony let out a loud, wet gasp, a stunned explosion of sound.

“Now all we have to do is get you to believe it.”

As they’d talked, their arousals had flagged, but Steve wasn’t concerned. He wanted to take his time and learn Tony’s special spots, just as he had done for him. Deciding they’d talked enough and that proof was what would cement Tony’s belief in himself, in them, he brushed his fingers against the hard collarbones, noting where one had been broken and kissing that spot, laved it with his tongue. “How’d you do this?”

“Skiing in Switzerland when I was 12. Took a corner too fast and hugged a tree the hard way.”

Nuzzling further down, he found a smiling scar just underneath a jutting nipple. “And here?”

“Surgery for an infected bee sting.”

“Surgery?”

“It abscessed, and I developed septic shock. I was only 15 and didn’t think it would be as much of a bother as it turned out to be.”

Steve chuckled and kept moving, stroking and kissing over indents left from shrapnel, and an appendectomy scar, licking the flat planes of his belly, the indent of his navel, the prominent hip bones he teasingly chewed until Tony jumped and squirmed away, laughing.

“You have an oral fixation I need to know about, Rogers?”

“I have a Stark fixation.” He nuzzled the soft skin of his stomach, aware that Tony’s cock was under his chin, tapping wetly against his throat, begging for attention.

He re-positioned himself until it was nearer his face, and he could smell and see Tony’s desire for him in the wet, reddened head, the rigid length, and taut skin.

“You said ‘almost’, right, Steve? Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Tony urged, his voice gentle though his gaze was famished.

For a moment, he hesitated, the prejudiced, hated voices he remembered hearing as a delicate kid who loved art taking over. _“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Rogers? That’s a man’s cock in your hand. Are you a faggot?”_

His nose, suffused with the scent of Tony that was strongest here, made his mouth water in anticipation. His tongue leapt out and made a quick foray against the lean length, immediately recognizing that this was the softest skin he would ever touch, while the flavor burst against his taste buds, imprinting its essence even further onto his senses.

“Yep. Guess I am,” he replied to the voices, but had said it out loud.

“What?”

“You taste great,” Steve told him, smiling. “It’s like the best coffee with a hot shot of whiskey in it. I could get drunk off of you.”

Tony lay back. “No calories, either. Though, moot point; you don’t need to count them.” He laughed and waved a hand. “Sorry. My brain’s shorting out.”

Grinning, Steve continued his oral exploration, liking the short, sharp sounds that were torn from Tony’s throat. It wasn’t until he dared to take the tip into his mouth and hold it there that the sounds turned to longer groans, hips twitching in an obvious effort not to thrust. He let his mouth open wider, unlocking his jaw, and moving down until the width just touched the back of his throat, expecting to gag. When it didn’t happen, he did it again, tightening his lips around the hard/soft rod that he was really beginning to enjoy. A few more times and Tony’s groans became louder, and words escaped, though in no order that made any sense.

Unfamiliar with how Tony liked to have his cock sucked, the rhythm or tension required, Steve took Stark’s hands and put them on his head, while his own cupped Tony’s ass, massaging the well-rounded cheeks, squeezing and pulling upwards, until, all of a sudden, Tony was back in control of the action.

“Don’t want to . . . _oh, god_ . . . hurt you.”

Steve squeezed harder and growled low in his throat, demanding he give in to it.

“Sonovabitch, you’re so fucking hot when you do that. It feels like an electric vibration that travels all the way up from my nuts to my nipples.” And then Tony began to move, slowly at first, testing Steve’s ability to handle it. Sometime after Steve’s third growl, he started thrusting harder, deeper, but not putting a great deal of push into it.

Knowing he wanted Tony to let go and really give it to him, Steve gave him a quick, loud slap on one butt cheek, pleased by the low moan that Tony made in response.

“Oh, you want to play like that, do you? All right, all right, I’ll give it to you.”

His hips got into the game then, pumping hard and fast, deeper and longer, and Steve held his mouth open, loving the way Tony was letting go and enjoying this. He couldn’t _hurt_ him. His fingers tightened in Steve’s hair, holding on, guiding him as Stark used his mouth and inched into his throat. It was a heady feeling, knowing he was giving Tony such pleasure that his usual protective instincts for Steve were set aside. It was so good, so sweet, watching as Tony’s eyes closed in bliss, his hips moving in a fast rhythm as he took what he needed, what he wanted.

His wail got louder and then cut off abruptly as he pulled out completely and pumped his cock hard, semen spurting and landing on Steve’s chest, his neck, and cheek. All the tension in his body collapsed like a deflated balloon, and he lay there, panting.

Steve chuckled at him before getting up and walking into the bathroom to wipe off the semen that was sticky and dripping on his skin. He took a quick taste and grimaced, glad he was doing it out of Tony’s line of sight.

“Come back here,” Stark called, his voice smoky and soft. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Steve rinsed out his mouth and ambled back to the bed, Tony lying spread out on his stomach. Wanting to lie on top of him, but aware he was too heavy for it to be comfortable, Steve lay by his side instead. “You look pretty finished to me.”

“Nonsense. I’m a Stark; I can fuck in my sleep.”

“When I want just a fuck I’ll be sure to remember that.”

“OOOoooooh, you cuuuuurrrrrssseeed! I’m gonna tell Coul-son. You’ll get into tro-uble!!!”

“What are you, five?” Steve asked, laughing. “Yes, I curse occasionally, most often around you, as a matter of fact.”

“I bring that out in people. Um, about the fucking . . . did I screw up?” Tony’s eyes were uneasy, frown lines gathering around his eyes.

“You didn’t screw up, but for the record, what we do isn’t ‘fucking.’

“Sounds like a distinction a woman would make.”

Steve sucked his teeth. “You’re just asking for a fight, aren’t you?”

He chuckled. “No. Really, no. Words are words; they mean what we want them to mean in a given context. Fucking. Making love. Having sex. Same diff,” Stark shrugged.

“No. Fucking and having sex are terms used for people who don’t give a rat’s ass about each other and only want the high. Making love is just that: Two people who genuinely care about the person they’re with. We. Make. Love.”

“And you, Captain Rogers, think you have enough experience to decide that?” he teased. “I can tell you that _my ass_ thinks we fucked yesterday.”

“Does it? Are you in pain?” Steve was immediately concerned, and moved, not hesitating to spread Tony’s cheeks to check for tearing.

“Whoa!” Tony cried out as Steve pressed a forefinger against the red, puckered ring, relieved not to see blood. “Warn a guy, would ya?”

Steve laughed at him. “You’re okay. Don’t scare me like that! I could really hurt you.”

He settled back to Tony’s side, looking into his satisfied eyes. His arousal had waned and he was a little sleepy. He closed his eyes and waited for it to come.

Instead, minutes later, he felt Tony’s fingers, gently teasing the skin of his cock, testing it, using his short, stubby nail at the opening to get his attention. Steve’s eyes opened with a snap. “I thought you were asleep.”

“You thought wrong.”

Stark scrambled down to the end of the bed and edged Steve’s thighs apart with his hands before nestling happily between them. He looked up. “Everything, you agreed, right?”

Not quite trusting the expression on his face, Steve agreed. “Ye-ah.”

“Good.” Tony ducked his head and Steve couldn’t read his eyes anymore. His fingers tugged and played with his sac for long moments, and he tried not to wriggle. When Stark’s mouth closed over one ball, wet and hot and careful, he fought to bite back a moan, but it escaped anyway.

Once Tony was finished teasing that one, he shifted, widening Steve’s thighs even more and said, “Close your eyes. I want to blow your mind.”

Steve obeyed the husky whisper, dropping a forearm over his face.

And Tony blew him all right.

All the way through the ceiling and beyond, his mouth hot and wet, like a tunnel designed just for him. He teased him with it, using teeth and lips all over, stroking his sac when he wasn’t pumping his cock in time with what his mouth was doing.

“Tony!” he cried out, more than once, begging in one second, and demanding in the next. He wanted it to end, and he never wanted it to end — to be caught in the fire of want was bliss itself.

A dry finger stroked over his balls and back, sliding between his cheeks with a bold approach, before sliding over his hole. Steve surged up, his cock going deeper in Tony’s mouth, then down, against that finger, the one that was just teasing him, taunting with the notion that sooner or later it would be inside him. . . .

Burning, sweating, and thrusting so hard he was afraid he would hurt Tony, he tried his best to hold back, but Tony wasn’t having it. Every time he fought to keep himself in control, Stark would gently press against the puckered opening, never broaching, but teasing him with the possibility.

Climax stole upon him before he could take a breath to scream. It ravaged his nerves, blanked out his senses, and left him a quivering, trembling wreck upon the bed, the red silk sheets stuck to his back and thighs. When his eyes finally opened, he could see Tony wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a mischievous smile on his swollen lips. _And isn’t that a sight to have burned into memory._

Steve lay there, shockingly wiped out, chest heaving as he fought for air, while Tony stepped into his bathroom. He heard water running and then Stark was back, snuggling into his side, and clutching his arm with cool fingers. “Okay?” he asked.

“Better than,” he slurred back, finding it rather difficult to talk, torn between sleep and the lazy lassitude of post-orgasm. “You?”

“Fantastic. But _tired_ ,” he muttered, sounding irritated by it. “You sure know how to knock it out of a guy, Rogers.”

“Right back atcha,” Steve mumbled, already feeling sleep over taking him.

“I like that,” he vaguely heard Tony comment before darkness shut his consciousness down.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's gift; Bruce meets Betty's husband.

Some days it wasn’t easy being Anthony Stark.

And some days, it was fan-fucking-tastic. And all because he’d woken up with Steve Rogers curled around his back, warm and big and naked, one long leg tucked behind his own, a gentle hand over his chest covering the arc reactor protectively.

He yawned a little, rubbing his eyes. Steve had woken early, and instead of exercising in the gym, had exercised himself all over Tony. It had been a fabulous wake-up call, but now it was only two, and he was ready to take a nap.

A nap. Him. Inconceivable.

Shrugging, he drank more of his protein shake and did his best to focus on the new helicarrier specs.

His attention was distracted by the package on that side of his desk, a long, wide thing, covered in brown paper and string. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where did this come from?”

“It was hand-delivered by Captain Rogers this morning, sir.”

“Oh, that’s okay then.” He looked at it again, chuckling at the wrapping and wondering when Steve had had the time the slip down here. Was it before or after rendering Tony both breathless and speechless? That made him smile at the memory. Splitting the cord with his fingers, he slipped the pieces of paper off, and gaped.

It was a painting.

A painting of him.

With clothes on.

And it was gorgeous. It made him look gorgeous.

On the bottom of the canvas frame was a note in black ink. _In thanks and appreciation for the Rogers Assimilation Program. Even without the suit, you’re a hero. — Steve_

He swallowed tightly, put it upright on his desk, and stepped back to view it better. And was completely astonished by what he saw.

The Tony Stark that stared out at him was the ‘Man of the Future,’ his gaze searching off into the distance, his plain brown eyes made dreamy and fascinating with light and color and depth. Around his head were light drawings of the air-car, the helicarrier, arc reactor tech, and his new CO2 scrubbers for the atmosphere. It looked as though here was a man who could actually belong with a guy like Steve Rogers, and how amazing was that?

To the right and behind of the center figure was Stark the engineer, rendered in blues and grays, red-gold and black. Dressed in wifebeater and jeans, his hair was mussed and tousled, his eyes tired behind safety goggles but intently focused on the work in his gloved hands as the arc welder spat sparks, the arc reactor a mesmerizing blue flame on his chest.

To the left of the center figure was Iron Man, the colors perfectly matched to the actual suit, his body bent in an action position and crouched as though fighting, repulsors out and hot. It was the Mark IV, Steve’s favorite.

Behind and to the right of the engineer stood the teacher and philanthropist, showing Stark with the autistic children of the Maria Stark Children’s Foundation and the dozens of grad students that would do just about anything for him, their adoration plain in their gazes.

Behind Iron Man, was Tony, smiling and laughing, body relaxed, one arm around Pepper and the other around Rhodey. The happiness on the painted face made him grin, a strong emotion welling up in his damaged chest, leaving his heart fluttering.

He stood there for a long time, noting the tiny little things that Steve had added, that he had _seen_. Pepper’s blue, blue eyes and patient smile. The hints of his clothes style, a mix of a hairband-rock tee shirt with jeans and boots or a $3000 blazer and deck shoes. The patched brown leather work gloves Tony habitually wore while creating, fingertips cut off, the hide worn and scuffed from use over the years — a pair he refused to give up because they had been his dad’s. The way Tony had of talking with his hands as he worked with the grad students, sketching ideas into the air, the intensity of his need to create in the expression on his face. And, best of all, the obvious adoration and love he had for his friends, his self-created family.

Steve wasn’t just an artist; he was _talented_. And then he realized there were tears in his eyes.

The painting said much about Tony and who he wanted to be. But the work and thought, the sheer expression of his many personas, said so much more about Steve, and the way Steve saw _him_ , that it took his breath away.

Through every brushstroke he could feel and almost hear Steve telling him he was loved, unconditionally and without limits. That he saw _him_ , not the labels. And it was this understanding that kept the tears flowing.

By the time he’d gotten himself together, it was late afternoon. He wouldn’t be getting any work done now, his attention was shot, and all he wanted to do was be near his guy, listen to him breathe, smell his skin. He didn’t even care that he was so gone on Steve; his usual mechanisms to protect himself had fallen to Rogers’ sincerity long before he’d moved in.

He carried the painting to the bedroom of the penthouse with gentle, careful hands. He had no idea where he could put it, but he wanted it near. It felt like Steve had put his heart onto the canvas and that was too private and precious a thing to show just anyone. He placed it on the bureau where he would be able to see it easily, and lay down on the bed, staring at the painting in satisfaction.

If he had any doubts about his feelings for Steve or Steve’s for him, they were entirely laid to rest.

Clasping his fingers behind his head, he relaxed completely, feeling a kind of safety he didn’t think he’d ever really known before.

_Steve loves me._

He smiled and then his face split into a huge grin. _Wow_. _Am I lucky, or what?_

 

 

Steve sat quietly in Phil’s office, his knees jammed up against his desk as he sat on the beaten up sofa that was set against the wall. Coulson was finishing up a phone call.

They’d been discussing budget issues, training requirements, and the rotation of agents through Banner’s security team, and then the team roster.

“You mentioned something earlier about a roster change,” Steve began.

The agent nodded. “Fury and Stark are like a match to dynamite. They set each other off.”

He sat back and shook his head. “You know, I took this job to save the world. But the guy who really did that was Stark, not me.” He caught Phil’s eyes. “I’m not dropping Iron Man from the team. Period.”

Phil chuckled, laugh lines showing up around his mouth. “I told Nick that, but he wanted me to run it past you anyway.”

Steve relaxed. “Now that’s out of the way, you need to know that there won’t be any additions or changes until the team settles down and becomes a more cohesive and integrated unit. It’s happening, but it’s a slow process. Sudden changes add tension to the existing members, as they shuffle to accommodate new abilities and temperaments. Once we are smoothly interacting in regard to personalities and how they mesh on the field and off, then we can add new members, _if the team approves them._ ”

Coulson noted the condition and waved it aside as a given. “There are a few who might be useful immediately, Steve. There’s a kid swinging around New York right now who has made a few waves with the police. They’ve labeled him a vigilante, but he could fold in to the Avengers current structure—”

Steve raised a hand to slow him down. “I’ve read all about him in the newspapers and the files Sitwell sent to me. Spider Man’s independent, cocky, flashy and somewhat juvenile in his behavior, but still possibly a useful asset. If SHIELD chooses to use him individually under the guidance of a senior agent, and test him out, fine. I’ll consider him in another six months. Not before then.”

Phil pursed his lips. “That sounded definitive.”

“That’s because it was. SHIELD and Fury destroyed any trust factor that we had in them and him. The only reason we’re still aligned with SHIELD is because of you.”

The agent’s eyes widened and he threw down the pen he’d been absently twirling. “Me? How do you see that?”

“It’s very simple, Phil,” Steve told him. “We may not trust Fury, but we do trust you.”

Coulson remained quiet for a long time. “That puts me in the middle, between you and Fury.”

“Isn’t that where the Avengers liaison was meant to be?”

Phil’s tone was so dry as to be arid. “I don’t think that’s the way Nick expected it to work. He’s somewhat possessive of the Avengers, and you, in particular. I’m supposed to help you follow the plan he created, not assist you in opposing his orders.”

“SHIELD may have brought us together, but they did nothing to nurture the bond. We had to fight our own battles with the media after the Battle of New York. Fury’s manipulations with you, the World Security Council, and the Tesseract didn’t help his cause, if his intent was to bind us more tightly to the organization. If we follow anyone, Phil, you need to know it won’t be Nick Fury.”

“He’s not such a bad guy, Steve,” he insisted, smiling. “He just has a tough job, and sometimes, it may make him less forthcoming than he otherwise might be.”

Steve just looked at him, well aware his disbelief was written across his face in bold letters.

The agent threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. So Nick is the primary stage-manager of a global initiative to keep the free world safe from whatever may threaten it at any given moment. He’s a bastard, but that’s what it takes to do the job. I’m not apologizing for him; I know you guys are angry and feel badly used. However, in the end, he saved my life. I’m grateful, and I’d appreciate it if all of you could remember that.”

Rogers considered. “The team would prefer to remain under SHIELD’s umbrella. We’ve talked about it for months, and the final decision is this: As long as we don’t have to deal much with Fury, we’ll come when you call. If he tries any funny stuff with Tony, or attempts to use Natasha or Clint to indirectly influence us, I will personally put my boot thru that man’s ass, and no SHIELD security detachment will stop me. Have I made our position clear?”

Phil swallowed and gave him his most benign smile. “Crystalline. Thank you.”

“Business finished?”

“As far as I’m concerned it is.”

“Good. Let’s go get lunch.”

After a solid lunch, Steve took the train to PS 130 in Brooklyn, a kindergarten to 2nd grade school, where he had volunteered for the Sports Explorers program. It was designed to get kids off the couch and game consoles and into organized sports or other healthy activities. And while it was supposed to be all about them, Steve wasn’t certain who had more fun; they sure made him laugh and forget his worries. After a few hours playing and then signing autographs for surprised parents, he got on the train to head back to Manhattan. By pulling his hat down low and keeping his sunglasses on, he altered his profile enough that he hoped he wasn’t noticed by anyone.

Standing, holding onto the center pole, he wondered how Tony had liked his gift.

Steve had spent many an hour working on the painting, worrying, hoping that it was all he wanted it to be. Finally, he’d had to put the brush down or he’d ruin it. Once it had dried, he took another day to build up his courage, before wrapping it and leaving it on one of Tony’s worktables in his primary lab. He hadn’t heard from Stark, and was a little worried that the present had been a dismal flop.

It had become a habit for him to touch base with Tony and Bruce before anything else. Checking his watch, he went to the kitchen and made Bruce a grilled cheese sandwich, nibbling on the bright cheddar too. Then, he went down to Bruce’s lab and hit the key-code. When the door popped open, he entered. At his workspace, Banner was surrounded by his grad students, all talking about something they were air-drawing. That’s what Steve called it anyway.

“Hey,” he said by way of greeting. The kids respectfully backed off a few steps, but stayed close to the drawing, talking amongst themselves.

Bruce smiled, but there was something in his eyes that Steve didn’t like. A distance maybe; a sadness.

“Still feeding me, huh?”

Steve deposited the plate over the mounds of textbooks, journals, and working drawings. “I knew rats in the Depression that ate more than you do.”

Bruce grimaced. “I’m working.”

“Work later, eat now.” He leaned against the desk, his arms crossed, waiting, his body acting as a barrier between the students and the professor.

Bruce sighed and picked up the sandwich. He took a grudging first bite, and his stomach rumbled loudly enough for the two of them to hear. Steve knew once his taste buds woke up to the scent and taste of food, Bruce would eat until there was nothing left. It was just getting that first bite into him….

He left the scientist with an empty plate and fingers he was licking clean as he continued discussing the problem they were working on. With a satisfied grin, Steve left him to it.

Tony wasn’t in his lab, which was odd. “Jarvis, where’s Tony?”

“The penthouse, Captain Rogers, resting.”

 _Resting?_ “Is he sick?”

“Not that I can detect, sir.”

Steve took the elevator up to the top-most floor and walked quickly into the billionaire’s bedroom. The lights were low, only one overhead focused in the direction of the bureau. He ignored that to go to Stark. “Tony, you okay?”

There was a sweet smile on his lips, as Stark stretched awake. “Perfect,” he replied, patting the comforter. “Better with you here.”

Steve released a pent breath. “You don’t usually nap. I was worried.” He sat next to Tony on the bed, and caught sight of what the one light was defining. “Oh.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah. _Oh_.” He turned over, pillowing his head on Steve’s thigh. “That,” he thrust out a hand at the painting, “is the best gift I’ve ever received. Outside of you, of course.” His voice was soft and low, intimate, and Steve was just able to hear him.

He ran his fingers through Tony’s dark hair. “I’m glad you think so. I wanted to thank you for all the work you’d done on my assimilation program and it kind of grew from there.”

Stark sat up and looked into his face, one gentle hand caressing his cheek. “I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go anywhere without me.”

Steve flushed and Tony leaned over to kiss him, lips soft and sweet, the tenderness in his expression unfeigned as his lids closed. It was more than just a kiss; it was a brand, a mark of possession, an avowal of so much more than mere love, Steve’s heart clenched in his chest for a long moment, before bursting into rapid, thumping life again.

“I kind of like that idea,” he murmured against Tony’s lips when the kiss ended, only to have it begin again.

It didn’t take long until they were both naked, Steve flat on his back with Tony running his lips over the skin on his chest, licking the taut nipples slowly, causing Steve to arch against him.

“You are gorgeous,” Tony murmured.

“That’s just the serum,” Steve replied, uncomfortable. Young Steve Rogers had been nothing less than scrawny.

“Take the compliment,” Tony insisted, his fingers lightly stroking Steve’s cock.

“No. It’s what the serum made me. Not who I am.”

Stark paused, then took his hands away and sat up. “Listen, I read all about the experiment. But from what you’ve said, the notes my Dad kept, and what Bruce says, the serum only gives you more of what you already had: A big heart, a fierce, determined spirit, and a beautiful, if not strong, body.”

Steve looked away, frustrated he couldn’t seem to get his point across. He sat up and pulled the sheet across his lap.

“Don’t you get it yet? This body isn’t all I love about you.” Tony pulled his face around, to meet his eyes, which were a little sad. “You, Steve Rogers, are an amazing guy, whether you’ve got muscles or not.”

“Trust me, Tony, you wouldn’t even have noticed me before. Nobody did.”

“You think I’m that shallow?” The sadness had evaporated into disappointment.

Steve considered it from Stark’s point of view. “Okay, what do you think you would have seen?”

“Well, let’s see: The most stunning pair of blue eyes ever; a mouth that would make a nun swear; inner strength, tempered by gentleness; an overwhelming need to do the right thing by everyone; and the kind of stubbornness that I can’t help but admire. You may not have had the body to back it up then, but the spirit was sure as hell was willing. No one else tried so hard to get into a war they were so ill-equipped to handle. From the reports I read, you were having asthma attacks three times a day in training, developed bronchitis, shin splints, slipped discs, strained muscles, and a worse heart murmur, just from basic. If Erskine hadn’t pumped you full of serum, it was unlikely you would have survived your first deployment. And I figure you knew that.”

Steve flushed. “It didn’t matter. I had to try.”

“That’s the guy I love,” Tony told him with a smile. “That guy. And if he’s got a buff bod now, it’s only a plus for me.”

He figured he’d have to accept his belief, since there was no way to prove it.

Tony shook his head. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll stifle it.”

“No, no. I never want you to feel you have to censor yourself on my account. Compliments are just . . . hard, I guess. It wasn’t until I changed that I ever really got any.”

“Which made you insecure whether people liked you or just Cap?”

“Something like that.”

“I like Cap,” Tony told him. “But I’m in love with Steve.” He gave a tempting smile. “And I’d like to get back to loving on him, if that’s okay.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make something out of nothing.”

“If it’s how you feel, I want to know, if only to convince you what is true.” Tony leaned in and gave him a kiss that all but melted him to butter. “I know I love you, want you . . . maybe even need you, though I won’t admit that often.”

He stripped the sheet away. “You know what else I know? You’re _mine_.”

The hungry, intent expression on Tony’s face made Steve shiver. He loved having all his attention focused on him. “For as long as you want,” he agreed, pleased when Tony straddled his hips, locked his fingers in Steve’s hair, and devoured his mouth, sucking on his lower lip until it tingled, then suckling his tongue.

“Then . . . forever.”

Steve didn’t notice when he fell back, he only knew he felt Tony’s chest against his, the slight charge from the arc reactor buzzing against his skin. He was entirely absorbed by the mouth on his, the greedy hands that slid away from his hair to his shoulders, then to his nipples, to pull hard on the small points, twisting them until Steve bucked. It felt so damned good; his body burned for more sensation.

“Oh, don’t stop,” he demanded, when Tony pulled his lips away from his, and only a strong hand on his chest kept him from chasing his mouth.

“Down, boy,” Tony teased, running his lips down the ridges of his stomach, then lower.

He enveloped Steve in that hot mouth without any prep, taking him down like a sword-swallower in some carny act. Holy moley, it was good. He fought against his need to thrust, or to lock his hands in Tony’s hair, which left him with the bedding or the headboard. Stretching his arms, he held onto the edges of the headboard, while Tony sucked him hard, making him sweat. “So good,” he managed to get out from a gasping throat, as Tony worked him.

He was barely aware of Tony fumbling with something next to him until he pulled off. “Spread your legs, baby.”

He didn’t need to think about it; he just did what Tony wanted. A gentle, slick finger began to reach between his cheeks to find the sensitive core of him, a gel-coated finger stroking the outer rim. He gasped out a sound that could have been anything from “Yes,” to “Oh my god, do it!” and he shifted his legs wider.

He saw the totally focused expression on Tony’s handsome face for only a minute before he went back to blowing his world. The rhythm was hard and fast, countered by the easy, cautious digit that made its way into him. And into him, reaching, widening him with a gentle stroke that teased as much as it tempted. He held on tighter, not wanting to move anywhere from where that questing finger led.

It felt strange, having something there, even a finger, and he tried to find the pleasure in it. And until Tony found that small bump somewhere, he hadn’t. Once he stroked over it, and hummed, deep in his throat, Steve started letting out some sounds of his own, hot, gasping, pleading cries for more as he twisted to reach higher.

As the finger worked him open, again bumping against the shocking spot inside him, he yelled and came, his hips rising up and down, wanting to continue the sensations from both mouth and hand.

Tony choked and released his cock, but not the driving, spiral motions of his hand. One finger became two and widened him further, as Steve came down from the first climax, panting and sighing, his muscles limp.

“Guess you like it,” Tony murmured over Steve’s sated cock. It wasn’t either wilted or sagging, just shivering lightly with the race of his pulse. “That’s real good, baby.”

Steve couldn’t manage to pull together the wits to ask why, and obeyed Tony’s whispered, “Relax,” when another finger slid through. With each digit, he got harder, more needy, hungrier for Tony.

“Yes,” he said, hoping Tony would understand. “Please. Just take me.”

The smile on Tony’s face would have made the sun pale in comparison. His fingers left Steve carefully, and were wiped on the tee shirt he’d been wearing before. “Oh, I will. I will. Turn over.”

Obediently, Steve turned to his right side and let Tony bend one leg up. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Let me know if it’s too much.”

Steve nodded, impatient. “C’mon. I won’t break.”

As Tony slid the head of his cock over Steve’s hole, he muttered, “You’re too precious to me to hurt.”

The first thrust in was as wide as all three fingers and he fought to stay still and just let air go in and out. Gradually, Tony pushed deeper, stopping every minute or so to ask, “Okay?” before he slid further. Uncomfortable, but not wanting to tell Tony, he endured the ache until there was no more room for Tony to go and he hit that vibrant little bundle of nerves that made Steve’s cock dribble fluid. He groaned and relaxed completely as the pleasure swept him.

“That’s it. Oh, damn, you’re perfect for me. So good,” Tony moaned as he began to thrust ever so carefully.

“No, not like this,” Steve insisted, turning himself on Tony’s cock like meat on a spit until he was on his back and able to see him. The movement had caused some interesting sensations, and he settled himself back while Tony shifted him once more to put a pillow under his hips, lifting him just that much to align them perfectly.

“Ahh,” he moaned, feeling the heavy weight of Tony’s cock inside him completely, so full he almost couldn’t bear it. “Please. Move.”

“Touch yourself,” Tony told him, his mouth still red and roughened from the blow job he had so expertly given. “Show me how you like it.”

Steve flushed and then internally chastised himself for being ridiculous. His cock felt hard enough to shoot again, so he was careful about the tension of his pull, while Tony watched, his gaze avariciously bright, and started to withdraw, only to drive within him again, making Steve moan with each eager plunge of his cock inside.

“Fuck!” Tony cried out. “Shit, you’re perfect. So tight and hot around me; so good.” Words seemed to escape him after that, and all his attention went to lunging deeper and deeper inside Steve, withdrawing only to plunge again, his hips thrusting, until speech just became syllables, and the only sound was the wet smack of their flesh.

Tony worked him for what felt like a long time, but that was a relative thing that had no power in the hot, close space between them. His face was reddened, eyes closed, arc reactor lending light to a room that had gone twilight sometime before. His hands were locked on Steve’s hips, pulling him onto Tony, coupling them so fiercely Steve knew where would be bruises from his hands. He liked that, liked that he could bring that kind of passion out of Stark. It was the sight of those hands holding him that sent him over.

“Tony! Gonna . . . gonna . . . ahhh!” Steve yelled, cock spurting so hard it felt like it was coming from someplace deeper than his balls.

Tony’s response was a wordless climax, a burning sensation flowing into Steve, filling him, leaving him wet, shaky, and surprisingly, in tears.

Tony collapsed hard on top of him, his breaths coming in heavy gasps. They lay together, trying to find the wherewithal to speak or move, but it took a long time before either could break the silence.

“Yours,” Steve agreed, his voice a rasping hiss.

“ _Mine_.”

 

 Bruce sat at his desk later that night, a cup of tea his only companion. His grad students had filtered out one by one, each having another place they needed to be. Which was good; they were so young, and life ran by too quickly for a species whose average life span was only 80 years.

“Dr. Banner, there is a gentleman downstairs who wishes to see you. His name is Magnus Sampson.”

_Magnus? Betty’s husband?_

Swallowing loudly, he replied, “Send him down, Jarvis.”

He met Magnus at the lab door, opening it, and gesturing for him to come inside. Sampson was a big man, easily 6’5” in his socks. He was broad in the way that swimmers always are; wide in the shoulder and narrow in the hips. His smile was genuine, and so was his handshake, which was firm enough to be there, but not crushing. This was a man who had nothing to prove and contrarily, Bruce liked him. His eyes were a vivid green, and he was a dark brunette, cut short, which took nothing away from the model-handsome face, only enhanced by a broken nose that had healed crooked.

“Sorry for barging in on you like this. But I was passing and I thought it would be good for us to meet. And talk.”

“Um, sure. Coffee, tea?” Bruce asked, leading him back to the office space.

“Decaf tea, if you’ve got it.”

Once they had settled in two armchairs, Bruce began, “I wanted to congratulate you. On the Winston.” The prestigious award was given to those who had created medical applications that assisted those soldiers who had become brain-damaged during military operations, especially in war conditions.

“Thanks. It took me by surprise, actually.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read your work on the flu virus. One night, Betty was working on the few edits you wanted; I, sort of, leaned over her shoulder and got caught up.” There was a chagrined smile. “Most papers are so dry they should need dusting, but yours was fascinating, strong and fluid, not bogged down in tech-speak, and readable. I really enjoyed it. Important stuff. Really.”

Bruce chuckled. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, what did you want to see me for?”

Magnus grinned. “Right to the point. I like that.” He set his tea cup down. “I wanted you to know that Betty has told me pretty much everything about your relationship. And I’m okay with you remaining friends.”

He could feel the Other Guy behind his eyes, muscles tensing, becoming hostile, a low growl reverberating in the halls of his mind. _Somehow I doubt she told you everything._

“But?”

“No. No. There are no qualifiers. I trust Betts; she’s a good girl and she loves me.” His face fell a little. “Not like she loved you, I admit. I don’t think she could love anyone like that again; won’t take that risk. But she’s my girl and I’m going to do the best I can for her.”

“I hear you’re going to be a dad.” Bruce shushed his alter-ego. _Calm down. We’re just talking._ And then, _He calls her **Betts**_? _She must be in love._

Magnus perked up immediately. “Yeah. How’d you find out? Betts is worried sick about telling you.”

“Her father’s, um, funds, are earmarked for the baby. Boy or girl?”

“Don’t know yet. At the moment, it’s an _it_.”

Bruce chuckled. He hated liking this guy. “And what do you want?”

He shrugged wide shoulders. “Don’t care, really. Betts wants a boy one day, a girl the next.” Magnus’ gaze was earnest as it locked onto him. “Bruce, she wants to tell you. She’s just worried at how you’ll take it.”

He bit his lip and sat back in his chair. “Magnus, I can be her colleague, her friend, but nothing more than that.” He let that sit between them for a few minutes. “I love her; I think I always will,” he admitted, “and I need for her to be happy. If babies and diapers, PTA and play-dates will make her so, it’s fine by me.” He hesitated, and then said, “Whatever she needs from me, as her friend, I’ll give her. But I won’t be physically in her space all that much. No matter how controlled this aspect of me seems, I won’t take the risk of her becoming hurt by us — the Other Guy and me. We’re volatile, like TNT.”

Magnus looked down at his long surgeons hands. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I really am. I can’t imagine your pain.” He stood up. “I just thought we should clear the air, say what needed to be said.”

He stood too. “Took courage,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand. “I might’ve gotten a little green around the edges.”

Sampson smiled. “Possible. I figured as long as I didn’t get loud or make any quick moves, I’d get out alive. But it’s important to Betts, so it’s important to me. That you know how we stand.” He stepped back suddenly. “Your eyes are green. Weren’t they brown before?”

He nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking down. The Other Guy was mad and sad and didn’t know what to do, stomping around and punching the walls in his brain. “You’d better go. I’ll call Betty later.”

“Thanks,” Sampson said as he slipped out of the lab and to the elevator. Bruce deliberately closed his eyes and stood still. Did you enjoy scaring him like that?

**Hulk not like pretty boy.**

Bruce chuckled. _Steve’s pretty._

**Steve strong. Hulk’s friend. Not steal Betty.**

_I’m not getting into this with you again. Betty’s happy. She’s having his baby._

The Other Guy grumbled and fussed for the rest of the night, alternately irritated and then sad, silent only when Bruce spoke with Betty. Her happiness at the pregnancy was unfeigned and he was pleased for her, but abysmally depressed at it happening without him in the picture.

“Jarvis, where are the guys?”

“The penthouse, sir.”

The AI didn’t need to say anything further. There was only one room in the entire Tower where he was not welcome, and Tony’s bedroom at this point in time was it.

Aware that he’d become maudlin if he tried to sleep and couldn’t, he turned back to his work, the only solace he was going to have that night.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life.

Steve checked his clothes once more, smoothed down his hair, and confirmed that he had everything before walking into his first class of the spring semester. He wasn’t scared, only nervous, but he couldn’t help but remember the teasing, taunting, and bullying he’d endured through school, from first grade all the way to art school. Even with Bucky being his friend and occasional protector, Steve had still gotten into more fights than anyone else. He just couldn’t back down. Bullies thrived on that kind of thing.

He shifted his shoulders. While he appeared as young as all the other students on campus, decades and experience divided them. It had been a long time since art school and he was a different man now. He’d just taken a breath to walk into the classroom designated for pre-calculus on his schedule when he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. Steve turned to find Bruce standing quietly next to him, his long face softly smiling. Two SHIELD agents stood around him from about ten feet away, dressed casually, but their eyes and the tension in their bodies denied any nonchalance in their attitude. “Hi.”

“Hi. What are you doing here?” Steve asked, moving aside as students began to enter the classroom. Bruce and the agents shifted with him.

Banner rubbed his hands together and looked around. “Well, I just thought you might like company today.”

Steve smiled; he couldn’t help it. It was such a generous thing to do. “Don’t you have to be somewhere else? Like, maybe, sleeping?”

“No. So, shall we?” Bruce gestured toward the door.

Strangely, as they entered the classroom, Steve felt . . . safer. He could almost imagine it was Bucky next to him, though he doubted Bruce would be telling any jokes or flirting with the girls. Still, he knew that Bruce would guide him through any questions he had about either the class or the arcane system of education that was prevalent nowadays as he had been doing since Steve had talked about his acceptance to NYIT. All of Steve’s classes were at 8 a.m., so they wouldn’t interfere with the rest of his day’s work, either with SHIELD, the Avengers, or his volunteer or charitable activities. And it would still leave time to spend with Tony. He didn’t need much sleep; four hours was enough to keep him healthy.

They took seats in the back, and settled in, Bruce comfortably scratching notes on a pad of paper, covering the pages in a scrawl that Steve had no hope of deciphering.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Is that even English?”

Bruce chuckled. “My handwriting is abysmal. Always has been. Nobody can read it but me.”

Steve nodded and teased, “So it’s a love letter?”

Bruce’s smile widened. “Actually, it’s the opening of a research paper on the uses of gamma radiation in cancer therapies.”

His attention drawn by the arrival of the professor, a man in his mid-50s who looked both efficient and impatient at the same time, he muttered to Bruce, “For you, that’s a love letter,” and smiled when he laughed.

“I’m Professor Brewster and this is Math 141. . . .”

 

It was Thursday, Tony’s usual day to go into SI’s Research and Development Division and see what was going on.

His engineers and designers were some of the best in the world and as he got onto the elevator to go from the Penthouse to the 61st floor, he tucked his phone in his back pocket, and a set of miniaturized tools into the other. He wore boots and a chambray shirt with black jeans, because some of the geniuses he had around this place had a serious case of hero worship, and if he showed up in a suit, it would only make the behavior worse. And while Tony liked being admired, base adoration was a step too far. Stalkers need not apply.

The 61st floor housed his grad students projects; 62nd: chemical engineering; 63: civil engineering, including environmental, structural and water; 64: electrical, composed of computer software, hard, networks and electronic controls and power; 65: interdisciplinary, including aerospace and agricultural; 66: mechanical, one of Tony’s favorites, because it contained auto, naval, and aerospace designs; and 67: applied engineering, those for automation, control systems, mechatronics, and robotics. At present, he was booting out some of the sales offices on the 58th and 59th floors, to add a biological and biochemical engineering design floors and actively seeking biotech engineers, whom he hoped Bruce would oversee. He hadn’t presented the idea to him yet; Banner had some odd ideas about responsibility. The 60th floor held his and Pepper’s offices. He rarely used his, but Pepper lived in hers, or had, before she’d moved to Los Angeles.

Slapping his fingers together, he plastered a smile on his face, and entered the glass-doored domain of his grad students. Hours later, Jarvis texted him.

_Avengers Assemble._

  

Bruce waved goodbye to Steve and entered the SHIELD car that would take him to NYU, while Rogers walked to the nearest train station to take him downtown to the tower. The traffic around Columbus Circle was as bad as possible, it being lunchtime, and thousands of office drones were moving towards food or exercise at a rapid clip.

It took nearly 45 minutes before they arrived. He planned on doing some review of his lesson plan for the new semester, talk with Yost about the larger class roster he had this semester, and meet with his new batch of grad students before going back to the Tower. He slipped out of the car before they stopped in front of the physics building, having enough of the traffic to last him a while.

It didn’t take long and he was back in the car with his agents, going uptown again by four o’clock. They dropped him at the Madison Avenue entrance, but he detoured, wanting a cup of tea before going inside. He was looking forward to a nice cup of Masala Thai. Two agents walked behind him, having a joke amongst themselves, when his phone rang and he heard Jarvis say: “Avengers Assemble!”

 

Steve picked up his phone, to see Coulson’s office number. He wiped a towel across his face, removing the sweat from his interrupted workout, and said, “Hi, Phil.”

“Captain Rogers, this is an Avengers Priority One callout,” Phil’s calm but distracted voice told him. “We’ve got an apparent interdimensional whatsits dropped on Manhattan. The rest of the team have been alerted.”

“At least it’s not Brooklyn.”

He heard Coulson’s stifled laugh. “On coms, Cap. Meet at the QuinJet in five.”

His heart beating just a little bit faster, he ran to where the team kept their uniforms, already grilling Coulson for information.

And couldn’t help but believe that with this team, and Tony Stark, was where he belonged.


	26. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what it says. :)

Afew months later, Bruce stared into his computer screens with tired eyes.

His research on the influenza virus had become so well-known in the scientific community he’d received dozens of inquiries of his availability to work on more research projects. Given that even he needed to sleep a little, he’d finally agreed to associate with the CDC on an idea he had to prevent malarial infection. His thought that if humans didn’t smell or taste good, the Anopheles mosquito would find another blood host. The disease was endemic in Africa, and he’d seen what it did to pregnant women and children. He was also working with Tony on a purification system for polluted water in third world countries. AT NYU, he was working on the summary for different classes he wanted to teach and new projects for the grad students, more cutting edge than what they had been doing.

He scratched his head and yawned, turning his head to stretch the knots in his back and neck, then glanced at his watch. The numbers were blurry and he rubbed at his eyes, but they refused to clear. _Enough reading for one night,_ he thought, but then saw Steve at the door, juggling plates and drinks.

Jarvis unlocked the door and let him in just as the pile of items in his arms were about to fall to the floor. Steve had been in baking mode lately, and everyone was enjoying it, especially Bruce. The soldier had a way with cobbler that made the crust amazingly light and flaky.

There were two cups of tea, decaf for Bruce, and a large slice of apple cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, slowly melting.

With a grin, Bruce took them out of his hands and settled at his lab table, Steve on the other side.

“So what is it tonight?” he asked, jerking his chin at the soldier. “You’re only up this late if you’ve got homework.”

Steve smiled down at him, the kind that made Bruce’s heart go pitter-patter. “It’s math.” He shrugged self-consciously. “Just doing some reading ahead.”

Bruce admired Steve’s attention to his classes, and he adored the focused frown he would get on his handsome face as he read. He chuckled. “You’re as much of a nerd as Tony and me. You just hide it better.”

“Always liked school, though I was absent almost as much as I attended. Got sick almost every week, it felt like.”

“You’re making up for it now, huh?”

“Trying to. Not that I’ll ever be like you and Tony,” he shook his head, “but hopefully at least as smart as a fifth grader.”

He laughed. “Have you been watching that show with Thor again?”

Steve flushed. “Yeah. Nothing like a bright kid to make you feel like an idiot. I don’t know half the stuff they’re talking about!”

“And Thor?”

“He just laughs. ‘Midgard,’ Steve repeated, attempting to imitate the Asgardian’s voice, ‘is just one world of many in my father’s realm. I can’t be expected to know everything on each one. I know the important things and that is sufficient.’ But if he hears it once, he’s got it cold.”

“Yes, I have noticed that Thor has an eidetic memory, even in Allspeak. But I wonder if it’s natural. Their technology is so different from ours. . . .”

“Magic, you mean.”

“There is no such thing as magic!” Tony grumbled as he ambled through the lab door, his business suit awry, tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. “It’s just science we don’t understand yet.” He leaned over, gave Steve a smacking kiss on the lips then took his tea cup. “God, I’m tired. Business meetings are exhausting. I don’t know how Pepper gets so energized by them, they leave me wasted.” He drank a little more tea, Steve giving Tony an amused smile as he handed back the probably empty cup. “And she comes away with dozens of ideas while I just want to get back the hours that were stolen from work.”

Bruce nodded. He could understand frustration over that easily enough.

“Coming to bed?” Steve asked casually, leaning over Bruce to get his empty plate and fork.

“You sure?” He tried to be careful not to step on the time they could snatch to be alone. Their friendship was too important to him to be insensitive to their needs, and while he hadn’t completely come to terms with his jealousy over their relationship, he was trying not to be an ass about it.

Some nights, when Tony was locked in his lab or out of town on SI business, Steve had come to Bruce’s room and slept, but the three of them hadn’t spent more than a dozen nights together since Steve and Tony had gotten together. They’d never discussed it – Tony had just climbed into Bruce’s bed like he owned it (which he did) and Steve had followed him. Tucked warmly between the two of them, he’d felt their continued caring like the most gentle balm against chapped skin. It soothed the desperate ache that separation from them had caused.

Steve shook his head, his expression one of affectionate exasperation. “Tonight’s good. You both need some sleep. Talk about burning the candle at both ends.”

“I have work to do,” Tony argued, about to spin around, when Steve caught his arm.

“Not tonight. You have sleep to do. I expect to see you both in twenty minutes in Bruce’s apartment. No excuses.”

The two scientists shrugged and grinned at one another. Sleeping with Steve, even platonically, was no hardship for either of them. It was a shared experience he and Tony could have outside of their work and the team, so neither man argued. They separated at the elevator, and went to their respective apartments to change clothes.

A few minutes later, Bruce collapsed on his bed with a sigh. He’d been working hard on the malaria research and thought he might have a good handle on the bioengineering aspect of pheromone intervention. His head ached, his eyes were swimming, and his neck was at war with his shoulders, but he was satisfied.

The Other Guy rumbled slightly, dissatisfied that Banner was not taking better care of himself, but as they had argued about it that very afternoon, he remained silent.

Dragging himself off the flat surface with regret, he removed the clothes he’d been wearing since yesterday morning, then climbed into a warm shower, and scrubbed himself clean. He remembered that Tony’s barber would be coming by tomorrow morning to cut his hair, before Giovanni worked on Stark. The young, gay Italian immigrant thought nothing of Bruce’s insistence that he be given his hair clippings, and had shrugged narrow shoulders eloquently at his request. No doubt he’d had clients with even stranger requests.

Thick and curly, his hair lay wetly against his neck. Between teaching, various research projects, and recent Avengers callouts, he hadn’t had time to have it cut. The weather was getting warmer and he would be relieved to get it done, winnowed down to a minor thatch rather that the wild mess it was now. The towel drew a lot of the water, while the rest dribbled down his back, annoying him until he put a towel around his shoulders to catch it.

He caught his reflection as he went by one of the mirrors, wryly acknowledging that tonight he looked like a mad professor. His hair was wild and untamed, curling and coiling as it would; he had a two-day beard, and heavy bags under his eyes. Shrugging mentally, aware that even if anyone had been looking at him as a prospective lover, it wouldn’t be happening until he resolved his infatuation with Tony and Steve, or as another part of him whined, the fact that Betty was happily married and expecting a child soon.

Sighing, willing himself to put away that consistent ache, he took a glance at the rest of the room, and wandered into the living area.

And stopped sharply.

 _When did this become my home?_ he asked himself curiously.

Casually framed pictures of friends, colleagues, and the Avengers were displayed on flat surfaces. Textbooks and books were thrown everywhere, some open to a section, while others were draped lazily along armrests. A standing herb garden resting by the southern facing window, neat and well-tended. The couch looked well broken in and throw pillows nestled on the recliner where he liked to read and think the most. His clothes had remained in the drawers and closets where Tony had placed them, supplemented by the many other purchases both Tony and Pepper had made for him. Though he still had a ‘go’ bag, it was negligently tossed in the bottom of the closet, amongst a pile of shoes and sneakers.

Just about this time last year he’d received the invitation to Betty’s wedding; the arrival of the expensive woven-linen envelope had instigated an emotional tailspin that only Steve and Tony’s intervention had relieved.

And because of them, and their insistence that he deserved a life, he had a career in a field he loved, a home with people who understood his limits, and friends/teammates who cared enough for him to risk their lives fighting his monsters. He had all of those things, plus a relationship with the other soul inside him, one tormented by the pain and fear that he had thrust into it over the years.

The positive points in his life radically outweighed the negative now. He was so solidly in a place he couldn’t possibly have even imagined a year ago; the concept of suicide had long ago been unconsciously shelved. He was well aware that he wasn’t entirely over his myriad issues, and his lack of a sexual or emotional relationship with a man or woman left him isolated and lonely, but he was still miles ahead of where he had been.

His bed called invitingly to his weary body, and went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of cold water, before shambling his way into the bedroom.

He rolled into the middle of the bed, and debated whether he wanted to sit up and read until Steve and Tony arrived. Thinking he might as well, he stretched until he reached his StarkPad and opened his Kindle app. One of his guilty pleasures were Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and he’d downloaded one of Horowitz’ latest books. Ten minutes later he was mentally residing in their Baker Street sitting room, listening to Holmes violin, while Watson scratched out his latest little story for the Strand Magazine.

He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until Steve was sliding the pad away from his hand and returning it to the bedtable. Tony was muttering about flying cars, his gaze already half-mast as he tumbled next to Bruce, his head landing on Bruce’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around Bruce’s, while the other rested on his chest.

Steve shut the lights and laid down, chuckling a little, no doubt about how quickly Tony had started his soft, purring snore. “I swear, sometimes he’s just like a little kid afraid he’ll miss something if he goes to bed.”

Bruce smiled at Steve. The scientist resembled that remark a little too much for him to make any salient comment and Steve knew it. Their shared grin only highlighted the fact.

“Thank you,” he said instead, softly, sincerely. “I owe you both much more than I can ever repay.”

He couldn’t see well in the darkness of the room, but he heard Steve’s response. “Friends don’t keep score, Bruce.”

Tony’s fingers traveled up and tapped clumsily against Bruce’s lips. “Shhh,” he mumbled. “Sleepy-time.”

With another chuckle, Steve got comfortable against the pillows, moving until he was flush against Bruce. “You heard the man.”

With a nod, Bruce relaxed between his friends, a growing part of his heart and soul, knowing happiness.


End file.
